


all the leaves on the trees are falling

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Miscommunication, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4478777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is still a little—<i>very</i>, she is still <i>very</i>—shaken by the night's events. This is what she tells herself after he says, rocking back on his heels, "Feel free to visit whenever you like," and she blurts, "I could stay."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Van Morrison's "Moondance."
> 
> This is an alternate ending fic, where the declarations do not quite happen with the sunrise.

She is still a little— _very_ , she is still  _very_ —shaken by the night's events. This is what she tells herself after he says, rocking back on his heels, "Feel free to visit whenever you like," and she blurts, "I could stay."

Bog stops mid-rock, blinks, and his blue eyes finally hold steady on hers.

Marianne squares her shoulders. "I could help," she goes on. "Rebuild your…castle." She glances over the ledge they're still standing so close to, down at all the rubble half-concealed by the gloom. There are still leaves—shaken free of their trees—following the debris down. She swallows, trying to catch the breath that's suddenly left her. He could still be in that. He could be—

But he's not. He's standing right here, gone peculiarly still, watching her.

"Maybe help you find a new one?" she tries. Her fingers are digging so hard into one another, clasped before her, that the points of them are starting to go numb. She does not want to go. She cannot say it, cannot make her stubborn tongue form the words, but she does not want to go. She does not want to leave him. Whatever they've found together, it's still so fragile and new and already torn; she cannot bear to let it wither and die.

"You…would?" he says, all hesitation, like she's offered a gift he can't accept.

"I would," she says, more firmly this time. "I will. If you'd…if you'd like."

"I would." He says it almost before she's finished, as if she will take it back if he doesn't act quickly enough.

"Good." She smiles, honest-to-goodness _smiles_ , and it feels like the first time she's smiled in years. "Let's tell my father."

When she turns, Dawn is standing there, her hands pressed over her mouth as if that will be enough to hide her grin. Marianne widens her eyes just a bit in warning, and for once, Dawn keeps quiet as Marianne goes by, falling in step beside Bog.

He had hunched down to speak with her, and she appreciates the consideration for her neck, but now he towers beside her—one long stride of his legs for every two quick steps of hers. She risks a glance sideways at him, greedy eyes taking him in—whole, safe—and promptly looks forward again when his gaze moves to intercept hers. Her face is hot with embarrassment at being caught, but better that than the _worry_.

Her father is dusting his armor off, grumbling, his eyes narrowed over Marianne's shoulder at Dawn, who has doubtless turned back to Sunny. Marianne clears her throat, and her father's attention snaps to her.

She half-expects a very strong reprimand for flying off to confront Bog against his explicit command _not_ to, but he just marches across the distance between them and grabs her in a bone-crushing hug. Her shoulders, hunched up in defense, immediately slump.

"I'm so glad you're alright," he says in her ear.

"Fine," she reassures, hating the strain in her voice that heralds tears, the way she has to blink to clear her eyes.

He pulls back, hands on her shoulders, and looks up at Bog, still standing awkwardly beside her. He has a fidgeting habit, she realizes, and without his scepter he has to hunch, claws twisting together, to satisfy it. He doesn't look particularly fearsome this way.

"Bog," her father says. "I apologize for this…series of misunderstandings."

Bog inclines his head. "Aye." It's wary, as though he's never been offered an olive branch before.

"Dad," she says. "I want to stay."

Her father's wide, shocked eyes return to hers. She straightens, and his hands fall away from her shoulders.

"This could all have been prevented if our kingdoms had ever tried to reach an understanding. We might have resolved this peacefully, instead of…all this." She waves toward the wreckage of Bog's home. "I want to stay. To make things right."

The Fairy King turns back to Bog. "And what do you say to this?"

Bog's wings twitch. "I would welcome Mari…" He catches himself. Her stomach twists at his voice around her name, a pleasant little shiver. "…the _Princess_ 's—help."

"It's my duty," Marianne insists, seeing her father's hesitation. "To fix this. One of _our_ subjects trespassed in Bog's kingdom. Another destroyed his home. If there's ever to be peace between us, I can't leave now."

Her father knows something, she thinks—the way his shrewd eyes dart between her and Bog speaks volumes—but he does not share. He heaves a long-suffering sigh that ruffles his moustache. "You're not wrong," he mutters.

He cannot stop her—she has proven that once already tonight—but she would like his agreement all the same, his _approval_ , so she nearly wilts with relief when he says, "Alright. But I'd like to leave a guard or two with you. They'll be useful for the heavy lifting."

_They'll protect you_ goes unsaid. She nods; if it sets his mind at ease, she will not stop him.

"Leave a messenger at the border," Bog says abruptly. "My subjects can carry any word she wishes to send to you, or you to her."

Marianne catches the surprise on her father's face before he nods. "I will." At his sharp whistle, two guards snap to attention. "Stay with Marianne," he says. "Follow her orders."

"Thank you," she murmurs.

He casts her an odd, searching look—she wonders what he knows, what he suspects—and cups her cheek in his hand. "Be safe," he says, and lets her go. "My army will be gone by sundown, Bog."

Bog ducks his head again in acknowledgment.

"Dawn," her father calls.

"Yes?" she calls back, so innocently that Marianne knows she's heard every word.

"Time to go home," he says.

By the time the sun is fully risen, she has hugged her sister goodbye, and the army has gone, leaving her there with Bog and his strange goblins, who are all giving her sly, ill-disguised looks of interest. _Think of it as an adventure,_ Bog had said, but he hardly looks up for an adventure now, absently rubbing his injured arm.

She stares down into the gloom where his castle lies in pieces. She wonders if she can convince him to rest before going to work, but by the set of his jaw, she doubts it.

"At least let me see to your arm before we go down there," she says, pitching her voice low.

He cuts a surprised glance sideways at her. He looks on the verge of denying her, but when he catches sight of the hard press of her mouth, he does not fight her.

"If you insist," he says.

She takes his uninjured hand and leads him away, out of the sun, while Griselda marshals the curious goblins, directing them down into the ravine. Stuff and Thang make to follow them, but with a flutter of his wings and jerk of his chin, they stay behind.

When they pass into the cool shade of a towering, gnarled tree, she feels Bog relax, his fingers loose in hers. Her skin burns where he touches her. She hadn't known. If she had _known_ that it could be like this, a wildfire just from the brush of a hand, perhaps she wouldn't have sworn off it for good—but it's no matter now, for she's here all the same. With him.

A day ago, she didn't know Bog, and now—now, she can't fathom tomorrow without him.

"Sit," she orders, steering him toward an ancient, twisted root.

He doesn't fight or fuss, just goes where she bids him, his wings fluttering briefly to keep him balanced. For a moment, his hand stays clasped around hers, and then he lets her go, looking away, the faintest of smiles on his face.

She's standing so close—so close that her face is blazing with the proximity—but she tries to keep her voice businesslike while she examines his arm. "Where does it hurt?" she asks, hands hovering around the limb.

"The shoulder. It was dislocated." She lets out a hiss of sympathy, and he hastens to reassure her. "It has already been…tended to."

Still, she presses careful fingers around the joint. He's right—Griselda's yanking must have been more calculated than it appeared—but he still holds himself stiff as she examines it.

"You need a sling," she decides. "You're lucky it wasn't—"

Her voice catches, throat closing. She turns away, blind eyes casting around for something to use as a sling. She'd know just the thing, if they were in the fields—long blades of grass, woven together, the soft petals of a daisy to cushion the elbow—but there is no grass here, only moss and dirt and rocks. She looks up; the weeping leaves of the willow will work just as well. She's just spread her wings, about to fly up and tear a few loose, when Bog reaches out and catches her by the elbow.

"Marianne."

Her face screws up against the wild swing of emotion inside her, plummeting again. Oh, but it's been _such_ a long night, and a multitude of interruptions to the careful, hard existence she's carved out for herself these last few months, and it's too much, at long last; she's never been so overwhelmed in all her life.

He tugs, turning her back to face him, but she can't look at him with her eyes narrowed against the sting of tears, and he doesn't ask her to—just pulls her closer until she's gathered against him. They're of a height with him perched on this gnarled old root, and she tucks her chin against his uninjured shoulder and fights her emotions every step of the way.

"Tough girl," he murmurs fondly, so quietly she almost misses it, and she closes her eyes against the glint of sun cutting through the gloaming, holding him tight.

She doesn't know how long they stay there, huddled against one another; at some point, the wild pounding of her heart settles, and still she doesn't move, too afraid to part from the reassurance that he is here and real, that _it_ was real, his hand stretched out to her, tucking a flower behind her ear with tender fingers.

When she finally draws back, she brushes the back of her wrist across her eyes. "I'll make that sling," she says, her voice thick, and flutters off before he can stop her.


	2. Chapter 2

She is silent at his side while they pick through the rubble.

Well, _Bog_ does not pick through the rubble. He stands surrounded by it, leaning against his scepter with his good arm, and watches his goblins sift through the pieces. The magnitude of it has only just begun to hit him. He has lived here since he was a child, and now it's gone: so much dust and wreckage at his feet, kicked to smaller pieces with every step.

Something sentimental lives on in him, freshly awakened by Marianne, and truth be told, he mourns the castle. It has hardly been the friendliest place these last few years, but it has still been his refuge—his throne, his sanctuary—and at the assault of one golden-haired, power-hungry, _malevolent_ fairy, it is gone forever. It grates at him. He imagines with relish how mussed that eye-watering head of hair will get if Marianne finds him still alive down here.

His shoulder aches. The elbow isn't so bad, now that it's braced comfortably in the moss of the sling, but the shoulder cuts deep, a lingering distraction as he tries to determine what to salvage, what to abandon.

Marianne's wings droop behind her. Her tawny eyes look darker in the deep shadows of his forest. She picks up a loose tooth from the maw that nearly killed him, glaring at it as if it's personally offended her—and perhaps it has. He can still hear the gut-wrenching scream of his name, torn from her lips above the groan of his collapsing castle.

"So," she says briskly, tossing the tooth aside. "What do you want to do with all this?"

He knows that it can't be repaired; it's foolish to even attempt to salvage pieces from the rubble. Someone will get hurt, and they were lucky that everyone escaped unscathed the first time.

"Abandon it," he says, turning his back on the broken maw. "You know as well as I do that it cannot be rebuilt."

"Bog…"

But he sees the glitter of something silver, winking even in the darkness, and leaves her side to follow it. His heart leaps as it takes shape: her lost sword, the hilt just visible beneath a thick slab of bark and haze of dust. He leaves his scepter dug into the soft ground and kneels down to pull it free.

"Bog, don't," she calls after him, but the sword is already in his hands—its silver gleam marred and battered, but still whole. He wipes the dust from the elegant etchings around the hilt.

He presses to his feet and returns to her, silently offering the blade. She takes it with tender fingers, threading it back through the loop at her hip, but he can see on her face that she'd rather his castle were whole again than have her precious sword in her hands.

He still can't decide what to do about…that. About _them_. The potion didn't work, and she _stayed_ , but—things might have gone differently if the army had not appeared on his doorstep, or if he had just _listened_ to her, but now they circle one another with the raw honesty of moonlight gone out of them.

But. She stayed.

 _Why_ , he wonders, and _how_ , and _what_ does this fiery, stubborn creature want with him, and what does _he_ want with _her_?

Just the quick, surprised cut of her grin, the startled chatter of her laugh, her fierce threats and jibes and—

He looks away from the question on her face. Stuff and Thang are hovering around his ankles, Thang's mouth popped open as if about to say something, but Bog cuts him off before he can begin. "Scout for a suitable tree within a day's march of the border," he orders. "Send word with the mushrooms. We will be in the grove."

"Sure, BK."

"Yes, sire!"

Half a dozen other goblins peel off and begin the climb out of the ravine, and he waves the rest on toward the grove, plucking his scepter from the ground.

"What's the grove?" her voice asks behind him.

"You'll see." He beckons her forward, and she falls in beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. He wishes he had something to offer her; goblins are made of tougher stock than fairies, and in the deep shade of the forest, the fire of battle behind her, she must be freezing.

An insistent hand pulls at his uninjured arm. He glances down to find his mother, and Marianne raises a questioning eyebrow, but he points to the goblins marching ahead and she follows with her two gleaming guards, leaving them alone.

" _What_ , Ma?" he demands, sharper than he ought, but his patience is running thin.

She shoves a bundle into his arms. "She's _cold_ ," she hisses. "Give her this."

He looks at the old cloak—strong spidersilk and warm, thick moss—and remembers it around his father's shoulders, tall and imposing and dark. He wears it only during the winter; she must have found it somewhere in the rubble. He thinks of the dainty petals of Marianne's tunic, and for all that she is burning and fierce, she is delicate and lovely, too, and he cannot give her _this_ old, ugly thing.

"This isn't suitable for a—"

"Can't you see that she doesn't care?" she cuts him off, patting his hand. "It's plain as the nose on your face."

She can be very oblivious, his mother, very pushy when he would rather be left alone, but she can be painfully perceptive when it suits her, too. He mutters his thanks, and she smiles dotingly up at him, and by the time he turns around again, Marianne has vanished into the mist with his goblins. He forcefully brushes the dirt from the old cloak and follows after them toward the grove.

Everyone is settling in for a late morning nap, and after the night they've had, he doesn't begrudge them that. There are mushrooms scattered here between the blades of dark, tall, sharp grass—not like the soft growth in Marianne's fairy fields, but something hardier that thrives in the shade of the forest floor. He has to pass through and by a few mushrooms before he finds her, perched at the very edge of the bed she's claimed, hunched into her wings. Her guards are gone, though he suspects they are not far.

"This one's not sentient, is it?" she asks, the thread of anxiety making her voice a little high. "I—I'm not sure how to tell—"

He chuckles. "If it was, you would know."

She smiles back, relieved, and eases a little way further onto the mushroom, her shoulders relaxing, but her wings stay close around her. Dawn slept like that, he remembers, colorful wings draped protectively over her fragile body.

"I brought you…this," he says, and makes himself stride closer. Her lips form an _oh_ of surprise—not a trace of revulsion on her face, and isn't that a far cry from someone who called him a _scaly-backed cockroach_ not a day ago. Her wings flutter back, dropping close against the curve of her spine, and he settles the cloak around her shoulders. She gives a grateful sigh.

"Thank you." She turns her nose into the collar of the cloak and inhales deeply, her eyes fluttering shut. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She pulls it tighter to her throat, her hand brushing his.

His instinct is still to leap back, to pull away, but he doesn't get the chance; her eyes open and fix on him, and he couldn't move even if he wanted to. She pats the mushroom beside her. Her feet don't even touch the ground, he notices—tiny, dainty, fairy feet, ankles hooked around one another, swinging absently.

He sits, the tiniest of all possible spaces between them, and for a long moment, they listen to the groans and snores and yawns rising above the grove. She is soft and small and fiddling awkwardly with the cloak beside him, and he does not know at all how to begin—

But she shifts and lets out a surprised huff of pain, her hand sliding beneath his cloak to touch her ribs.

He reaches out, unsure how the gesture will end. "Are you—"

"Just a bruise." Her fingers move beneath the cloak, feeling around, her face sliding from one disgruntled expression to another. If he weren't so blindly anxious about her being hurt, he'd laugh. She's an expressive little thing, her irritation palpable in the twist of her lips.

"Let me see," he presses, and she doesn't put up the fight he'd been expecting—shrugs his cloak off one shoulder and carefully rolls up her tunic, exposing the wound. A big, ugly, red welt, coloring up the fair skin pulled taut over her ribs. He touches it carefully, and she hisses, her breath rising and falling beneath his claws, and he remembers—the hard, sickening thump of his scepter against her body—

He pulls back. Her brow furrows.

"I did this," he tells her confused face, and he knows, remembers what hating himself is like, it comes rushing back as if he'd not forgotten at all in these last few hours. It's not dark and shadowy inside, this feeling, but a bright, ugly light shone on his evil instead, impossible to hide from; it is this, her sunshine-bright eyes piercing through to the twisted, unlovable heart of him.

She reaches up, brushing soft fingertips over the sore spot on his cheekbone. "I did this," she returns, low and amused. "We can both take a beating."

He takes her wrist, meaning to push her—gently—away, but loses momentum at the look she gives him, one eyebrow raised in a silent dare to test her, just _try it, Bog King_ …and then her eyes fall to his mouth; her lips part to bring in air.

He wants to. Oh, how he _wants_ , but he releases her instead, and she pulls her hand back to her throat, looking away.

Not yet, he thinks. Not yet.

"I'll let you rest," he says, making to rise.

"Don't," she blurts, and then she blushes—like a _primrose_ , ancestors help him—and says, "I mean…mushroom's big enough for the both of us." She pats the spongy surface gingerly.

He could use a few hours away from her, he thinks—clear his head, maybe—but he would have to be crueler by far to turn away from that face, so he nods and they lay back on the mushroom, looking up at the faint glimmers of sunlight hardly visible between the leaves of his forest, so far above them.

Marianne wriggles a bit, adjusting his cloak around her, and blows her fringe out of her face. "It's a little…bouncy."

He turns his head toward her. "What do _you_ usually sleep on?"

She huffs again, rolling onto her side to face him. "A rose."

"A rose," he says dubiously.

"Yeah." She finally settles down, her cheek pillowed by a bit of the cloak. "Can't you smell it? I swear, I can never get the scent out of my nose."

He breathes deep. "No. Just dirt. Maybe sweat?"

There's a shocked silence as her eyebrows climb toward her hairline, and just when he thinks she might hit him again, she lets out a startled peal of laughter. From a few mushrooms over, hidden in the dark grass, one of the goblins gives a loud, disgruntled snore, but he smiles at the way her nose wrinkles with the force of her delight.

"Well, good to know it comes off," she chuckles. "So—why do you have a whole field of mushroom-beds?"

"Summer at the castle can get…muggy. We sleep here when it's too hot to stay there."

She purses her lips. "Some windows might help with that."

He grunts. "Structural weaknesses."

She gives him a sly smile. "Still had to have that skylight, though, hmm?"

He did like that skylight—the way the moon rose through it, casting his throne in shadow. Perhaps some hint of the loss shows on his face—he has been entirely too animated with her, he knows—for she says, her hand reaching down to curl around his, "We'll find you another one."

Her fingers are calloused from her sword; he can feel the hard press of them against his palm. His are different—his grip on his weapon not the same as hers—but the pads of her fingers touch them as though they're familiar to her. He can hardly stand her kindness, but how he  _wants_  it; it is harder to stand than the living fury of her blows, but he opens himself to it all the same.

She yawns wide, her teeth bright in the gloom. "Sleep," he tells her.

Her eyes go half-lidded, drooping. She's dusty and battered and still so _pretty_ ; he's never once found a fairy pretty before. Her hand does not pull back from his, but he knows when she's drifted off by the way her fingers go slack.

He expects to brood a little more, truth be told—about his broken castle, about her, about what comes next, thoughts leaping from one terrible conclusion to the next—but when he closes his eyes, exhaustion rises up like a wave to swallow him whole.


	3. Chapter 3

When Marianne wakes again, the sun is setting.

It shines bloody through the tall, thick trees, sinking into the horizon. The gleam of it stuns her; she doesn't breathe for a long moment, watching the light touch everything around them, warming the cool, dour tones of the forest.

It reaches Bog through the long blades of dark grass—falls across his scales in thin lines, picking out the russet hues usually hidden by shadow.

He's still on his back; the sling must have kept him from rolling, or maybe that's just how he sleeps. His head is lolled toward her, though, face slack and untroubled. He looks so unguarded—younger—without his animated snarls to protect him.

She ought to wake him; she knows that they've work to do, and the light is going, but she cannot bear to. There are suddenly so many simple, silly things she cannot bear, when only days ago she could have— _would_ have, with grim determination on her face—withstood anything.

 _In a minute_ , she decides. She doesn't much want to leave this quiet shelter yet, where she's so warm and comfortable and it feels as if the world outside has ceased to exist. Carefully, slowly, she curls her fingers back into the curve of his, and his hand tightens reflexively around hers. She hides a smile in his cloak.

But then his fingers deliberately _squeeze_ , and she hastily closes her eyes, her face burning again.

"Ah kin tell ye'r awake," he grumbles, his brogue thick with sleep.

She slits one eye open and fakes a yawn. He doesn't look convinced.

"What gave me away?" she asks. The soft, squishy heart of her is delighted that he hasn't untangled their hands yet.

"Yer face. Red as the sunset."

"This cloak is really warm," she defends.

His mouth curves up, and that—Skies, that's not fair. It softens him, draws her attention away from his scars and his angles and toward that friendly, boyish smile. Her lungs temporarily decide that they're tired of working, thank you, and she can't remember the last time she was so—so— _twitterpated_. Roland made her airheaded, thoughtless, but if some lizard or other beast marched in here right now she doesn't think she'd shriek in surprise and frantically flutter away; her sword would find its mark right off, she feels _that_ strong.

Even if she can't quite breathe.

He's about to say something when she hears the rattle of armor and gasping breath of some running creature, and by mutual, silent accord, they part ways to opposite sides of the mushroom, where Stuff, Thang, and one of her fairy guards finds them: Bog glowering, teeth bared, and Marianne's eyes narrowed, one hand on the hilt of her sword.

"News from the mushrooms, sire," Thang gasps.

Bog reaches for his scepter. "I'm listening." His voice is sharp again, no trace of sleep remaining.

Thang pauses, consults silently with Stuff—Bog growls his impatience—and stutters out, "A partially fallow key…sorry, sorry, hollow tree…half of May…half _a day_ 's march…south?"

Bog's eyes narrow, considering. Thang slumps with relief; Stuff pats him covertly on the shoulder; Marianne gives him the tiniest of encouraging smiles. She thinks he tries to smile back at her, but expressions are still a little alien on the goblin's face.

"We leave at moonrise," Bog decides, rising.

"Ah, sire—"

" _What_?"

Thang's fingers twist around one another. "The mushrooms also said…the hairy strings catch on bark florists?"

Marianne presses her lips together very hard, trying not to laugh. It's not that she doesn't appreciate the idea of this messaging system—it's genius, really, she wonders how long the rulers of the Dark Forest have had it—but it is a _little_ faulty.

Bog does not find this the least bit amusing, judging by the way he points his scepter at Stuff. "What did _you_ hear?"

"Bark _forests_ ," she says patiently.

"Might want to rethink your communications," Marianne chuckles, unable to keep quiet a second longer.

Thang casts her a terrified look; Stuff's eyes merely widen. Bog pays her no mind at all, sweeping past the two goblins and through the thick blades of grass. "Bog," she calls after him, but he doesn't reply. Something tightens in her stomach; she rises from the mushroom to follow. Her guard comes along without a word, one step and to the right behind her.

He’s shouting now, and she can’t make out the words. She pushes anxiously through the tall grass, following the sound of his furious voice, and she emerges from the grove just as Bog's snarl reaches fever pitch—his scepter raised, the mushroom at the end of the line hunkered down in anticipation of the blow—

"Bog!" she shouts.

The swing of his scepter hesitates. She runs, darting between him and the mushroom with her arms and wings outstretched. Behind her, she hears the tiniest, relieved sigh.

"What are you _doing_?" she demands.

The rage is still livid on his face, and now turned on her, but she does not recoil. "They're only mushrooms," he snarls. "A good smack'll hardly bruise them—"

She turns her back to him before he can see the horror in her gaping mouth and kneels down in the dark soil of the forest floor. The mushroom peaks up at her from beneath the mottled brim of its crown. "Tell me," she says softly, because if she speaks any louder, the quiver in her voice will give her away.

It beckons her closer with spindly arms. She leans in, turning her ear to its face, and it cups its hand and whispers, "The Fairy King leaves the Dark Forest."

She straightens up, lifts her chin, and looks over her shoulder at Bog. "My father has crossed the border," she tells him flatly. "Satisfied?"

She doesn't wait for his response; it is a while till moonrise yet, and a moment ago she didn’t want to ever leave, but now she wants nothing more than to be away from him. "Stay," she tells her guard—she can see his displeasure even with his face hidden in his helm—and she spreads her wings and flies, following the sound of water burbling nearby.

He does not call after her.

She _knows_. She alights on a flat rock in the middle of a soft stream—softer than anything in the Dark Forest has a right to be—and stands still a long moment, letting the cool breeze calm her heated flesh. She knows that the Fairy King and the Bog King cannot rule the same—that goblins are of tougher stock and thicker skull and perhaps respond best to a bit of a beating—

But she had not been prepared to _see_. What a fool she'd been, to think he'd show the same soft face to the rest of the world, the one that he'd shown her.

And _she_ is not soft, but she has only been hard to those who _deserved_ it, to Roland, to—

 _Dawn_ , a sly voice whispers. _Did Dawn deserve to be shouted at, shaken, for a simple little mistake_ —

She lets out a low noise of irritation, still half-lodged deep in her throat, and sits at the edge of the stone. She could use a wash. It feels like it's been a week, and maybe she won't feel so wretchedly  _soft_ after the freezing water of the stream.

She pulls the gauntlets from wrists, the boots from her feet. If only her pixies were here in the dark with her, helping her wipe the dust and sweat from her flesh. It's hard to get the stain off her eyes without a mirror, but she wipes at it until her fingers come away without any purple at all on them. Idly, she wonders if there are blueberries in the Dark Forest.

Her ears prick. Above the splash of the stream—there: the buzz of wings.

She leaps to her feet, whirls—she doesn't have her sword, she left her _sword_ behind, but she can hit just as well with her fists—but it's only Bog, landing heavily on the furthest edge of her stone. His scepter and her sword both glint in the clutch of his hand. Expression painfully closed, he holds the sword out between them.

She makes herself close the gap, makes herself reach for the sword. His sling is askew; she wants to reach out and right it, but she holds her blade tight instead, the point angled at the stone.

She needs to say…something, anything, but she cannot find the words for what she wants to tell him.

He saves her from her fumbling thoughts. "Ah'm…sorry," he says, so quietly. His wings flare behind him, shoulders shifting.

She yanks her hand through her hair "No, _I'm_ sorry," she mutters. "I know better than to contradict a ruler in front of his subjects. My dad's taken me to task over it, I just…"

His fingers flex around his scepter. "Doubt your father ever bludgeoned a fairy for tellin' him a message wrong."

"I thought you said it would hardly bruise them," she says, unable to stop the rising pitch of indignation.

"Depends on how far you throw them," he says, a bit evasively.

She lets out a horrified little laugh, and he winces at the sound, but before he can rush on—justify himself, as if he should, when she knows he shouldn’t—she says, "I know you rule differently here. Goblins aren't fairies. I won't interfere again."

She's turned away to pick up her gauntlets when he says, "You got that mushroom to talk."

She wraps the vine back around her wrist with practiced motions. "Probably a fluke."

"Maybe," he says, though it's clear he doesn't believe it. "I could be more…patient."

She stills. " _I'm_ not patient."

He chuckles at that. "No?"

She yanks on a boot, hopping on the spot. "Ask Dawn. Ask _Dad_. Impulsive Marianne, browbeating whatever won't get out of her way, including but not limited to ex-fiancés and palace guards—"

"I like…that," he says. She goes quiet, listening. "About you."

She straightens up, meeting his gaze. His eyes have softened again—not a smile, not exactly, but there's a tender twist to his craggy face. She can't think of what to say to that, just like the first time, and really, she should get better with practice, but how can she talk with her heart swelling up to wedge in her throat—

Even her father—and she _knows_ he loves her, she does—calls her  _unique_ like it has to be sugarcoated, the simple fact of who she is. But Bog, for all that he doesn't appear to be able to give a compliment without second-guessing himself all the way through, looks at her like she is exactly good enough as is.

He clears his throat. "I'm worried you'll try to send a message to…to Dawn, your father, and the bloody mushrooms will mangle it, and that army'll come marching right back here—"

"Would have to be quite a muddle," she says, amused. "Can they pass letters instead? No chance of mussing that, right?"

"With their grubby little hands, they might," he mutters, but he seems appeased.

From the shadow of his sling, he pulls a dark blue flower. The moon is rising at last, and the glimmer of it gilds the petals. Her chest aches like she's fallen on her own damn sword.

"I lost the last one," she whispers.

He tucks it behind her ear, the points of his claws arranging it in her hair, tracing her cheek. He could cut her to pieces.

He doesn't—and he does, too, in a way. "There are plenty more," he tells her.


	4. Chapter 4

It's been a bloody _week_ since they arrived at the site of his new castle, and Bog expected to have spent a great deal more time with Marianne than he's gotten to.

Seems like life's decided it doesn't like him much, after all—that bit with surviving the collapse, and that glorious hour exploring his forest with Marianne, even the damned swordfight just a wee slip-up in decades of misery—because for days on end he's only seen her across a crowded, dusty, still-being-assembled throne room.

That's where she is now, in fact, her wings flared wide to help pull a piece of wood loose. This tree is wider and older than his last home, hardier, but that means that it's a lot of work to hollow it out.

With Brutus's help, Marianne gives a last mighty tug and the piece of wood they'd carved pulls free with a groan. Her wings beat with the brief strain of taking the weight, but Brutus grunts and catches the end a little more firmly, and together they set the chunk down. Marianne gives a breathless, enthusiastic laugh, clapping Brutus on the shoulder, and—yes, Brutus is definitely looking at her wings a little sadly, like he'd really _like_ to eat them but he's very conflicted about it. Bog doesn't think that Brutus has ever been conflicted about eating _anything_ before.

It's a start.

Marianne catches his eye and grins. Her hair is full of stray bits of wood and dust, her skin is flushed and dewy from a long day of heavy lifting and hard work, and he thinks—again, damn his squishy, sentimental insides—that he has never seen anything so glorious as her, her hand reaching up to sweep the hair from her face.

She looks left and right and darts through the stream of goblins walking to and fro across the room, dodging around each with her end goal unmistakably clear. His heart lifts—

—and his mother comes out of bloody nowhere to intercept her. Bog can't hear what she says above the din, but a moment later, Marianne's mouthing _sorry_ at him with a pinched look around her eyes and following Griselda off to the upper rooms.

He feels like throwing something, or _someone_ —thinks wistfully of kicking a mushroom off into a ravine—but he settles for driving his scepter into the weak spot in a stubbornly unmoving piece of wood that Stuff and Thang are pulling at. It nearly buries them when it suddenly comes loose. At least the sling has come off, and he has use of both his hands and most of his strength again.

"Everything okay, BK?" Stuff asks, wiping the sweat from her brow.

"Fine," he says sullenly, and stalks off to supervise the movement of yet more wood.

She did say that she was staying to _help_ , he tells himself; there were no other promises, no matter what soft touches or tender looks pass between them. Perhaps she's waiting on _him_. He has long become used to being the most terrifying thing in this forest, but _that_ is a new terror entirely. What would she expect him to do? Are there some ridiculous fairy courting rituals he ought to be versed in?

He snorts, and Brutus gives him a sidelong look, like he might settle for Bog's wings in a pinch; Bog gives him a sharp rap on the head, and Brutus desists. She _hates_ those sorts of things—forever tainted for her by Roland. No, she would not be expecting that from him.

He knows very little about her, he realizes, which is frankly baffling. How can he feel so—so _much_ about her—but know so little? How can he have uncovered her deepest, most terrible wound in one night—and she his—but not know what comes next?

He knew _of_ her, of course. As long as there have been monarchs in the fields and the forest, they have known _of_ one another. His mushrooms tell him many things, for all their faults. He remembers vaguely the news of her birth—he still a child, his father still a looming shadow, scaring fairies back from the border with his presence alone.

He has not thought of her age before, and it unsettles him now. He remembers the Fairy King's eyes, narrowed at him in the pale gleam of sunrise, and he wonders if it was a warning rather than an appraisal—

He shakes himself. Marianne is her own; it is her choice. Besides, she is old enough to have had lovers before him—

Not that they _are_ lovers. Not that they _will_ be.

He is mangling this as surely as Thang's abysmal hearing.

Disgusted, he calls a halt to work for the night, and the goblins—too weary to grumble—traipse away toward their temporary shelters near the river just outside.

He has not seen Marianne since his mother made off with her, and one of her fairy guards has his helm turned Bog's way. Bog can just see a narrowed, jewel-bright eye in the slit of the helmet, so he goes in search of her before he can be accused of a kidnapping he hasn't committed.

Yet.

(He could not kidnap Marianne. He does not know exactly how she skinned her knees as a child, and he does not know her favorite haunts in her fields, but he does know that she would either do her level best to kill him or willingly go along with it, in which case—that's not much of a kidnapping.)

They had carved out and cleared the upper rooms first, out of necessity; it would have created extra work to go from the bottom up, debris from the upper levels raining down to litter the lower. The newly-hewn steps are still a little ragged, but they serve well enough, and he follows them up toward the sound of voices.

Not _voices_ , just the one voice, but the way she's going on, he can tell his mother's talking to Marianne.

"—don't want to cover up that pretty skin of yours, but I've seen the way you shiver when you can't wear Bog's cloak. Don't look so ashamed! The forest's a drafty place, you won't hear me say otherwise, and I can have some more things like this made so that you're more comfortable—"

Bog knows better than to eavesdrop—he has never, _ever_ heard anything good of himself doing it, and yet. That does not _stop_ him from doing it, hunched in the shadow beyond the doorway, ears trying to pick out Marianne's mood by her silence alone.

If she can endure his mother, she's made of even tougher stock than he believed. _He_ can hardly endure his mother.

"This is…really nice," Marianne says at last, and he doesn't know whether she likes or hates those fairy council meetings, but he knows the note in her voice that says she's teetering on some emotion she's afraid to show. "You didn't have—"

"Of course I did! Can't have you feeling all out of sorts, can we, away from your family and in an unfamiliar place—would be plain rude to torture you with the cold, on top of it."

There's another short silence. Marianne is as bad at words as he is; they're all knives to her, something to cut deep, and when she doesn't want to _wound_ , what's she to do with them?

"You've got somethin' on your mind, little briar. Spit it out."

Marianne chuckles low. "You remind me of my mother. Even Dawn won't really nag when I get quiet, but Mom, she—" She clears her throat. "She wouldn't stand for it. I just…I saw Brutus do that thing with his tongue he does when he wants to eat something, and then he…stopped…because—"

"Because Bog'd kill him," Griselda says matter-of-factly. "Not quickly, either."

"But will that work forever?" Marianne's light footsteps pace away. "Don't get me wrong, Bog is—very frightening—when he wants to be, but—is this…idea of mine…to bring our worlds together. Is it impossible? Is someone always going to want to _eat_ the other?"

Griselda's laughing; judging by Marianne's sudden silence, she is not reassured by this. "It's been an age since a goblin _really_ ate a fairy," she reassures. "Certainly not during Bog's time. You ask me, it's been so long since anyone's seen one of you that the first thing they think of is to eat yeh. It'll pass."

"You think?" Marianne says, and there's a note of relief in her voice.

"I do," Griselda says stoutly. "Now, you quit your worrying, and tell me what colors you'd wear this in, and we'll get you sorted."

Bog goes, passing through the shadows and up the next flight of stairs, their voices fading behind him. His new throne room does not have a skylight—structural weakness, Marianne had proved that once and for all—but the stairs do lead up until he stands out in the open, fresh night air sliding over his scales. The hatch can be closed and barred with solid, hardy wood and a stone of Marianne's suggestion, but now he leaves it open.

If he looks west, he can just barely make out the border—long grass springing up between the gaps in the trees.

He wonders how long she's wanted some honest communication between their kingdoms—if, maybe, things had gone differently, he'd have met her as Queen, shouting down his border until he granted her an audience. He wonders if she'd have found someone to replace Roland by then, or if her guard would've still been up, sword on her hip and that hard glint in her eyes.

He starts to wonder if he's just a means to an end, but hard as it is, he cuts that line of thought right away. He did not profit from doubting her intentions before; he doubts it would go differently now.

"Thought I might find you up here," her voice says behind him.

He glances back. "Why's that?"

"Because I know you were eavesdropping," she says smugly, "and I know you wouldn't go back down to the throne room without me."

He'd been _quiet_ , damn her. "And how d'you know that?"

"My guards got antsy when I went off with your mother," she says, stopping beside him. "And you have a long shadow."

He raises a brow down at her.

She folds her arms over her chest, a smirk on her violet lips. Her hair's been brushed free of dust, though he sees a stray wood chip still hiding in the wild sweep of it.

"I only came to save you from my mother," he grumbles.

"Good job."

"And then you didn't need savin'," he continues, irked, "so I—"

"Listened in a bit?" Her eyes shine with her mirth. "Hear anything interesting, Bog King?"

"Plenty," he bluffs, and gets a little pleasure out of the way her smile falters—but he decides to go easy on her, if only so that she won't flutter away. " _Princess_."

She lets out a little huff of laughter. "Liar."

He likes the quiet with her, he's come to realize; it is never comfortable standing in silence with someone else. He must always be on guard with his goblins, ever imposing, threatening, and his mother will not leave the hush where it lies even if her life depends on it, but with Marianne the quiet is a precious, comfortable thing.

"Bog," she says eventually, "was your father a fairy?"

He casts her a sidelong look, and the curve of her cheeks immediately darken.

"Sorry," she mutters, "I was just thinking and I realized, you know, I don't—I don't know much—"

"About you," he finishes, oddly pleased that this has niggled at her, too.

Her eyes go soft, and it's a sight, the gleam of them bright in the moonlight, the faintest whisper of lines around her mouth easing. "And I'd like to," she says—so quiet.

"Well," he fumbles, "that's—ah—I'd like that, too."

She smiles, quick and embarrassed, and looks back up to the moon.

"But why d'you think my father was a—?"

"The wings," she explains. "The goblins don't have them. Your mother doesn't. I thought, maybe…"

"Not a fairy the way you're a fairy," he tells her. "But, a long time ago, our kingdoms…they must have not been so far apart."

She considers this—he can tell she's chewing on the inside of her cheek in thought, and wishes he could reach out and stop her.

"And it's not weird, for goblins," she says. "Not to…know?"

He scoffs. "And fairies don't have a few strange ones flying about?"

She shakes her head. "We don't mix with others, generally." Her brow furrows. "I worry about Dawn…with Sunny. For more than that, obviously, I haven't forgiven him for trying to love-dust her…" She reigns in her rising voice, takes a deep breath. "But fairies and elves…It's not done."

The heart in his chest (why hasn't he cast that organ out yet?) sinks.

"Don't get that look." Her voice goes sharp. "I didn't say it wasn't done by _me_."

"I didn't—"

"I saw it," she says, reaching up to grasp his chin, forcing him to look at her. "You know I'm not just _any_ fairy. I only worry about Dawn because she's so…she's so…"

Her nose scrunches up. It is far cuter than it has any right to be.

"Innocent," he suggests.

"I would have gone with naïve," she sighs. "She sees the best in everyone, and some people—some _fairies_ —don't have a shred of good in them. There'll be…remarks. I don't want her to get hurt."

Those remarks will be nothing compared to the ones that her fairies will make about _him_ if she pursues this, for perhaps _she_ doesn't find him hideous, but had he not seen with his own eyes how the potion had failed to work on her, he might've believed she'd been dusted. He knows his own face.

He means to ask her this— _won't **you** get hurt?_ So he swallows the dryness in his mouth and begins, "And…yeh don't…?"

Her eyes burn. "If they want to wound _me_ , they'll have to use harder weapons than words."

She simultaneously pulls him down and pushes up onto her toes, and then her warm, lovely mouth is pressed to his. He nearly jolts back in surprise, freezes instead, and her lips part and he feels the ghost of her breath against his skin and her body is within reach of his hands, so it seems—wise—to touch her, arms curling around her waist, careful of her wings. She tips her head a bit to the side with the softest sigh he's heard from her yet, and this gets his nose out of the way, and she's pressed up against him, so close that he can feel the warmth from the flush in her cheeks.

A passing cretin could set him on fire, and he wouldn't bloody notice.

She slips away, her hands sliding from his jaw to his chest, her eyes wide and impossibly _dark_ ; just moments ago, they were sunlight, and they are no less fierce, now, but thick with wild shadow instead. With his hands still curved around her delicate ribs, he can feel her heaving for breath.

She gives a gust of a laugh, which reminds him belatedly that he needs to breathe. "Then again, I don't know if a blade would do the job, either," she says.

He should tell her that it's foolishness, that a sword in the right spot will kill her regardless, but he can't bring himself to brush away the pretty sentiment of her words.


	5. Chapter 5

Marianne worries that she'll get rusty without her pixies.

She can go through forms with her sword, of course, can slash and parry against an imagined opponent, but it's not the same as having someone to spar with. In the rising light of the morning sun, she reminds herself that she's _never_ had someone to spar with. She has practiced, learned, alone. And it served her well enough, didn't it? She'd held her own against Bog.

She pauses, sweating, and wishes she could bring herself to hunt him down for this, but—he's busy, she tells herself, and swats at the air again, her irritation making the cut harder than it needs to be.

Behind her, a throat clears.

She turns, and there he is, as though he'd read her damn mind. _He does that a lot_ , she thinks wryly.

He does not have his usual scepter in hand; instead, he carries a long wooden staff and a shorter imitation of her sword, edges blunted.

"I've heard you practice in the mornings," he says by way of greeting. "I thought, maybe—I could join you." One shoulder rolls back, popping the newly-mended joint. "All this building…I'm getting out of practice."

"Me, too." She eyes the staff and sword. "Practice weapons?"

He tosses the sword; she snatches it out of the air. It's similar in weight to her own. "I'd rather you didn't kill me accidentally."

She snorts. "I wasn't _trying_ to kill you. After the first minute or so, anyway."

"Ah," he says, "is that why you lost?"

Her temper flares. "I did not _lose_ ," she says sharply. "I had my sword at your—"

"And you dropped it—"

"It was a draw, then!"

The look on his face pulls at her insides—a taunt and a smile all at once, kindly mocking. "I'd guess you want a rematch, then," he says, brandishing the staff.

They circle. This is different, she thinks, than dropping feet-first through moonlit glass—no rage to press her forward, just the careful calculation, analysis of his weaknesses.

He's much bigger than her, with longer limbs, which means that she needs to be fast to avoid his reach—needs not to get caught under the weight of his weapon, or it will be over. He does not advance. His style is much more defensive than hers; she'd noticed that when they'd first fought, at first believing that she'd taken him by surprise, then realizing that he'd been sparing his energy, letting her rain down her furious blows until there was a more opportune moment to strike.

She will be more deliberate this time, she tells herself.

She balances her sword in hand and sweeps forward. He knocks the jab aside, slashes one of his own at her knees. She hops over the strike, letting it whistle harmlessly beneath the soles of her boots. It's almost effortless, the way they trade blows and dance around one another. It feels a thousand times more natural than any dance she's shared with anyone else—all the suitors at all the balls before Roland, all hoping to catch the eye of the eldest fairy princess, every one of her toes stepped on by the end of the night.

She'd still loved those balls. On the rare night that she'd found a good partner, it had been easy, enjoyable—like floating away on a particularly strong draft, laughing and singing.

She wonders if goblins dance.

"Who taught you to fight?" Bog grunts, aiming a high blow at her shoulder. She dodges beneath it.

"Uh, no one."

She takes advantage of his surprise and smacks her sword against his leg. He winces and knocks the wooden blade away, and she grins, darting out of reach of his retribution.

"No one," he repeats, one brow raised.

"Spied on the guards doing their drills, imitated the new recruits' routines. Didn't have a teacher, though. I didn't, ah…"

She catches a jab at her ribs and rolls away, tucking her wings. He nearly overbalances in an attempt to follow.

She pops up again and blows her fringe out of her face. "I knew how they'd treat me," she mutters. "They'd have coddled me, if I could've convinced them to give me lessons. Condescended to me, tolerated me, and they were all…friends…with Roland."

He gives a commiserating huff of understanding.

"So," she goes on, "I wanted to be relatively proficient before everyone found out I could even use a sword. I practiced by myself, or with my pixies."

"Pixies," he says. It's clear that he cannot quite bring himself to believe her.

"Yeah. Strong little critters—you'd be surprised." She takes a swing at his chest, which he blocks. "What?"

"Nothing, it's just—you're quite good, considering—"

"My lack of formal training? Yeah, thanks." She snorts.

"It was a _compliment_ , tough girl." There's a current of exasperation in his voice. "Your determination molded your skill. That is…impressive."

Mollified, she moves in close, her sword arcing up and over. He catches her blade on his staff and they hold there, straining against one another, her teeth clenched with effort. He has a better poker face, his lips tight over his jagged teeth, bright blue eyes narrowed, wings flared wide, the morning sun shining rainbows through their translucence—

He gives an almighty shove and she staggers back, and then she's on her ass with her sword useless at her side and the ridge of his staff leveled at her throat, just barely touching beneath her chin. He's smirking.

She is _not_ going to admit that he got the better of her because she was distracted by his wings. Huffing, she stretches her hand up to him, and he heaves her to her feet. He's vigilant with his claws, careful not to scratch her thinner skin.

"Well, isn't that how every warrior learns?" she grumbles.

"Not always," he hedges.

There's a story there, but she can sense his reluctance, so she points at the staff rather than pushing. "I want to try that."

His smirk widens. "May be a mite heavy for you."

It _is_ taller than her, but she still stretches her hand out, offering him the sword. He plucks it from her fingers and deposits the staff there instead. Immediately, she puts another hand out to catch the extra weight and retreats to swing it around a bit. Bog does the same with the sword, which looks laughably tiny in his grip.

"Okay," she says finally. "I'm ready for you."

Maybe one day she'll be able to hold the staff in one hand, if she practices enough, but for now she keeps both hands wrapped firm around it, about as far apart as the width of her shoulders.

"You'll need a different strategy than you use with this," he warns, brandishing the sword at her. "It's slower."

"Maybe I'll surprise you."

His mouth quirks. "Constantly."

That's a low blow, flirting with her when all she wants—at the moment, anyway—is petty revenge.

She _is_ slow, and she knows he's going easy on her to let her adjust, but finds that she doesn't mind. Much as it tries her patience, she adopts his defensive-minded strategy, knocking aside the quick strikes of the practice sword. It's a while before she even attempts to swing back at him, and she shouts at the effort, heaving the heavy staff through the air. He flutters out of the way.

"So, if not determination, then…what?" she pants, releasing the staff from one hand to swipe at her hair.

He knows what she's asking, and he chooses his words carefully. "With great reluctance."

She swings again, harder this time, hoping to be quicker, but he catches the strike on his sword and turns her away. Her wings flutter to keep her balanced.

"My father taught me," he continues, rewarding her patience.

"You didn't want to learn?" She knocks aside the stab of his sword; the staff's superior length, weight be damned, makes it almost easy.

"Teenagers seldom want to do anything, as I'm sure you know firsthand," he says, dryly now.

Marianne groans. "No kidding. Getting Dawn's head out of the clouds is…challenging. I wasn't the picture of good behavior of that age, either."

He winces. "So she's… _always_ …like that?"

"Always," she laughs, a little breathlessly. She's figured out that momentum helps with this ridiculous staff, so she cajoles her muscles into moving a little faster, letting the weight carry her swings through. He steps quicker to avoid her.

"How do you…stand it?" he asks, brow furrowing.

"Oh, don't give me that. You like her." She can see that he's about to deny this, the words formed in the snarl of his mouth, and delivers the killing blow: "I saw you frowning over that boutonniere she gave you when it stopped sticking the other day."

He grumbles, caught. "I'd still prefer her not to be…singing."

"Me, too, most of the time," she admits. "So, teenage Bog—not so intent on royal responsibilities?"

His pause is longer this time, but she waits him out, focusing instead on the burn of fatigue in her shoulders and arms—not quite strong enough, yet, to last out the morning with a weapon like this.

"My father was an exceptional warrior," he says at last, "and I did not enjoy being constantly beaten. By the time I could match him, I—did not take as much pleasure in it as I'd thought I would."

She nods, understanding. "Still remember the last time my dad actually managed to chase me through the fields and make me come home. Now, running out of his reach when he can't catch me, it doesn't…feel right."

Bog gives a grunt of agreement, and she swings again, harder, aiming to beat the regretful edge out of the moment. This time, to her delight, she succeeds in hooking the staff around the back of Bog's ankles, but he doesn't go down the way shedid; he briefly windmills, loses his balance, but his wings right him quick enough, carrying him out of reach of the staff. He grins at her. She scowls back.

"Had enough?" he taunts.

She jabs with the staff, he darts around it, and she uses the very brief window of his movement to spin, picking up momentum before slamming the staff against the backs of his legs again. This time, he _does_ fall, arms going out to catch himself against the ground. She points the staff at his throat, grinning.

"No, but it looks like you have," she declares.

He doesn't look particularly upset at being knocked down, or even at her gibe. She offers her hand down to him, digs her feet in, and hauls him up. He doesn't let go once he's regained his balance, so she doesn't, either.

"Much as I've enjoyed this," he says reluctantly, "I do have construction to supervise."

She's about to agree, ask him if he'd like to practice again tomorrow, when he raises her hand to his mouth, brushing a tender kiss across her knuckles. His eyes never once leave hers, and she feels the shock of the blush that blooms across her cheekbones.

"I'll, um, I'll help," she stammers, losing her metaphorical footing with embarrassing swiftness.

"Should finish the throne room today," he goes on, as though he's totally unaware of how much he's flustered her.

"Have you found another…" She pauses and tries to breathe discreetly, to get her voice back under control. The pad of his thumb strokes lightly across the center of her palm. "Have you found a throne yet?"

He shrugs. There's a hint of a smirk playing around the corner of his mouth, and she _knows_ he's getting back at her for surprising him with that kiss the other day—that's Bog, combative and vengeful even when it comes to romance—but that does not help her regain her focus; she only remembers, with stunning clarity, the way he'd looked at her afterward, as surprised as if she'd punched him but a hundred times more pleased, and that does not— _help_ —present matters—

He cups her cheek in his free hand and leans down, and she has the foresight to close her eyes, and then he's kissing her, soft and deep, his long fingers sliding into her hair. She only has to tip her face up to meet him, her fingers clenched reflexively around the staff still in one hand, her heartbeat short and sharp against her breast bone like some wild thing trying to break free.

It's tame, chaste, compared to the things she did with Roland—they make her guts crawl now—but it sets her aflame the way no caress of his fingers ever did, as if her very soul is brimming with  stark, incandescent moonlight, about to spill over at the slightest provocation.

It _terrifies_ her; there has never been anything like it.

When he pulls back, and her eyes flutter open, all of his brief self-assurance is gone, replaced instead by look full of vulnerable, nervous fondness that he levels straight at her. "Was tha'…alrigh'?" he asks.

"Great," she says, her voice a rasp, and desperately clears her throat. "Yeah."

He smiles, reassured, and lets her go. She gathers up her real sword and hefts the practice staff, and they return to the inside of the tree, closing the latch behind them, and they descend in silence, now and then catching the other's eye with an embarrassed grin.

She pauses outside the door to her room. Not _her_ room, she reminds herself with a brief flutter of panic—just a _guest_ room, one that she happens to be staying in. Because she is a guest.

She cannot, after all, stay here forever.

The thought is an unwelcome, bitter wind in the warmth of the morning, and she hopes it doesn't show on her face. It has not been long enough to worry, yet. She can stay another fortnight—another month, maybe—before she's truly missed.

"Well," she says, "I'll see you down there?"

"Yeah," he agrees, and gives her a smirk not unlike the one he'd leveled at her when she was on her ass on the ground, crooked and horribly endearing.

The brief chill fades, but the prickling seed of fear settles deep in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As everyone can tell at this point, I'm very fond of Bog's accent thickening when he's flustered or sleepy or all of the above. Yes, _please_.


	6. Chapter 6

"Message for you, sire."

Bog glances down at the scroll of parchment, tied off with a ribbon and a flower, and scowls. Thang's fingers have already dirtied the delicate paper, but the scent of the flower remains, too light and fragrant for anything that originates in this forest.

"You're sure it's not for Marianne?"

"No, no, it says right here." Thang lifts the scroll high, squints at the tag dangling from the ribbon, and slowly reads. "'To the Bog King.' It's got the royal seal on it."

Bog takes it from Thang's hands, sees the covert thumbs-up Stuff gives the smaller goblin, and ignores them both. "Back to work," he dismisses, gesturing toward the dungeons.

They jog off, talking in cheerful undertones. He slices through the seal with one sharp claw and reads, eyes narrowed. The ink is a soft, summer-sky blue.

_Dear Boggy—_

He groans.

_I'm so excited to write to you! I heard from Marianne that you've found a new castle, and that construction's going well. I'm so pleased! If you need any help decorating, I hope you'll tell me, because I have **so** many ideas. Just say the word!_

_Actually, I wanted to ask you a favor. I've been doing everything I can to keep Dad from worrying, but Marianne's never stayed away for so long before, and she doesn't write as much as she should. Would you mind if I came and visited? Just for a few days? I'll have to bring a few guards, but that way, I can check in with Marianne and report back to Dad and everything will be fine!_

_You'd better be taking good care of my sister, Boggy. Please send me your reply as soon as you can._

_Hugs,_

_Dawn_

He groans again and sits down on his throne—at present, just a carved bit of wood, just until they can find something more…threatening. He's considering a cutting from the briar patch, suitably thorny without the hassle of hunting down an abandoned animal carcass for the bones.

He hardly knows Dawn, save for how high-pitched her singing voice is in the clutch of a love potion, but he hears the tone of warning her missive carries loud and clear. Marianne's allotted time away from her kingdom is growing shorter. He knows that she cannot stay forever, but…

As soon as she flutters back into those fields of light, will she ever return to this forest?

He scrawls out a short reply and sends it away to the mushrooms. If they're quick, he can expect Dawn to be here in three days or less.

He ought to warn Marianne.

Strange, that Dawn wrote to him and not her sister. He wonders if it's meant to be a surprise, but she didn't say as much, and he isn't about to assume. He goes in search of Marianne, climbing the stairs toward her room.

It's late; by all accounts, she ought to be inside, but the door gapes wide, the room empty. He's not set foot in here since she's taken up residence, but now he hesitantly enters, eyes searching the shadowy corners for some sign of her.

There are flowers scattered all over the small wooden table at her bedside. One of them, neatly dried, is the blue blossom he'd given her the night before their journey to his new home. He smiles to see it. The others…

They're in tatters, half-formed, petals torn from this and that, each attempt at mashing them together abandoned halfway through. He picks one up for closer inspection, finding vines and bark to hold the piece together. He can feel her frustration in the mangled flowers as clearly as if she'd cursed in his ear and thrown them down beside him.

He replaces the creation on the table, careful to leave it where he found it. If she isn't here, then…where is she?

The first trace of anxiety twists his stomach. He leaves her room, follows the stairs up, hoping to find her on the platform that has become their sparring ring, but she's nowhere to be found here, either. In the dark light of only a sliver of moon, he has to strain to make out the forest floor of his kingdom, trying to spot her violet wings amidst the foliage.

 _There_. His heart lifts in relief to see her, on the opposite bank of the river, whole and safe—and with two familiar goblins hovering at her side, too. Not alone, not in danger. He takes flight, sweeping down to join them.

"So this one's safe?" she's asking Stuff, the undeniable twist of misery around her mouth.

"Should be. Just stay out of the nettles. And maybe take one of us with you, if you're gathering."

"Sorry," she mutters. "I didn't want to be a bother—"

"It'll bother the king more if you get hurt."

"Who's hurt, now?" Bog interjects.

All three of them start at the sound of his voice; Marianne's brown eyes lift to fix on his face, barely visible in shadow, and her mouth forms a small _oh_ of horror. She promptly pulls her hands out of Stuff's grasp and hides them behind her back. Thang is lurking behind her legs, as though this will sufficiently conceal him.

He points a long claw at Stuff. "Explain."

"Marianne was just exploring the forest, BK," she replies promptly. "Found some of the stinging nettles. I showed her our remedy."

"It's my fault," Marianne says. She can't quite meet his eye. "The plant life is…different…here. I'll have to be more careful."

Bog shoos the two goblins, but adds, "Thank you, Stuff."

She smiles up at him and bounds away with Thang.

"Let me see," he says, stretching out a hand to her.

Her feet shuffle. She looks not unlike a child caught in an act of wrongdoing. "It's nothing," she insists. Her voice cracks in a peculiar fashion, gone rough, and that alone tells him it's _something_. "I'm fine."

"I'd prefer to see for myself," he says. "Stuff can get her remedies mixed up."

She pales. After another few seconds of what looks like furious internal debate, she brings her hands out from behind her back.

It's only the right that's been affected, and Stuff has covered it adequately with the soothing mud balm and waxy leaf cover that the more sensitive goblins use for such injuries. He worries it won't be sufficient to repair her softer skin, but they will see for certain in the morning.

In her other hand, she clutches some colorful hodgepodge of flowers, her fingers doing their best to hide it from him.

"What's that?"

The color rushes back into her face. "It's…it's…" Her shoulders droop. "It's a _boutonniere_." She says the word like it's something disgusting she's picked off the bottom of a rock. "To replace Dawn's."

He opens his mouth and just as swiftly closes it. The torn and tangled flowers in her room suddenly make a great deal of sense. She uncurls her fingers and thrusts it toward him, avoiding his gaze.

"I know it's hideous," she says.

He takes it from her palm. Her fingers immediately curl into a fist.

"You called _Dawn's_ hideous," he reminds her—but gently. He has no desire to find out if her left hook is as good as her right.

"It wasn't," she says, still looking resolutely away from him. "It was perfect. Everything Dawn makes is perfect. Symmetrical. _That_ is…" She waves at the boutonniere. " _Terrible_."

He inspects it more closely. There are a few blue petals—she'd returned to the field of flowers, then—and some of the reddish purple leaves from the tricolor beech trees. It's all arranged, a little lopsided, against a piece of bark. Judging by the gouges, he suspects she tried to carve it with her sword.

"You made this…"

"For you," she says miserably. It's clear that if she had the use of both her hands, she'd use them to cover her face.

He sticks it to his carapace. She stares at him like he's grown another head.

"Don't _wear_ that," she mutters. "It's not—it's—I'll ask Dawn to make you a better one—"

"I don't _want_ another one. I want this one." And it isn't a lie; he _does_ , because she made it for _him_ , and perhaps it's not symmetrical at all, but it's even better for that—perfect, even, because no love potion drove her to make it. Because he's seen her throw knives at pretty decorations, and he's seen her struggle to give voice to the things in her heart, and he is the same, just the same, but he is still proud of her for being so brave.

"You look ridiculous," she tells him, but her face is finally starting to crease into a pained smile.

"With that mud on your hand, so do you."

She blows her hair out of her face, laughing. "It's late. Guess we should head back."

But she doesn't try to leave, standing there at the river's edge, and he doesn't, either, sneaking sidelong looks at the fading blush on her cheeks. It must _irk_ her so, that she—so fierce, he would never say otherwise—has skin so fair and thin that every passing rage and humiliation shows on her face, but he—and again, he will never tell her this—thinks that it looks very nice on her, the line of it extending from her cheekbone to her ears, to her neck.

"Can I show you something, before we go?" he asks, and she nods hastily.

Strictly speaking, they don't _have_ to fly through the briar patch to get there, but it is the shortest route, and he doesn't mind the excuse to be close to her. She doesn't wait for his invitation this time—just flies close to his side, catches his eye, and folds her wings. He keeps her airborne, and her wings don't so much as twitch when he touches them. Her head drops back against his shoulder, her eyes wide and dark, watching the thorns pass within arm's reach of them. There is nothing like watching _her_ , silent with awe, and he has to remind himself to look where he's going.

The cave is his oldest childhood haunt—the first place he found when he could fly alone, the place he retreated to when the outside world and its duties and responsibilities became too much to bear. He has not come here in a long time, but he thinks she will like it.

Her gasp is so violent that he feels her ribs expand with the force of it; he lets her down, and she stands stock-still, as though the sight will vanish if she makes too sudden a move.

The mushrooms in this cave are tiny, no higher than their ankles and not sentient, but they emit a dim glow—a deep violet only just distinguishable from the darkness around them. The longer they stand there, eyes adjusting, the brighter the fungi glow. The light of them catches the gleam in her eyes.

"Bog," she whispers, a reverent hush to her voice, "it's _beautiful_."

He waves her on, leading her to the back of the cave, and she picks her way through the mushrooms, careful not to step on a single one. There is a long, low stone at the very back, free of any plant life that might be squashed, and he sits to show her it's alright. She settles down right at his side, ducking beneath his arm to lean against his shoulder.

The cave is on a ridge, just high enough to pick out the odd silvery light of a tired moon beyond the briar patch. She's dead quiet, her eyes darting from the cave itself to the sight beyond, as though she can't quite decide what she wants to look at first.

He won't tell her—she'd likely hit him—but he likes her like this as much as he likes her with a snarl on her lips: unblinking, her breath soft, her muscles loose, the hard, flinty edges of her all worn away.

She lets out a long, low breath. "Very smooth, mighty Bog King," she murmurs through the delighted curl of her grin.

He should tell her that her sister is coming—it is what he set off to do, barely half an hour ago—but the longer they sit there, resting against one another, watching the light of the moon shift against the forest floor, the harder it is to form the words that will shatter more than two weeks of peace. Chaos, yes, full of not just the dust of rebuilding but the haze of all the emotion Marianne brings with her, and yet it's peace like he's never known.

 _One more night,_ he thinks. There is no harm in telling her tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

"And this one's poisonous."

"See? You're getting the hang of it, little briar."

Marianne doesn't know what to think of Griselda's pet name for her—if it’s an insult about her hair (often snarled and wild) or a fond reference to her prickly verbal barbs—but it's not in her nature to be unnecessarily cruel, so she offers Griselda a hesitant smile. A particularly toothy grin beams back at her.

"Might think about trading that in your fields, if your plans work out," Griselda adds, pressing her fists into the small of her back and stretching. "It's good on weapons. Effective."

Marianne's stomach clenches. "No," she says.

Griselda blinks up at her. "No? I can promise you—"

"No, I believe you, I just meant—we don't have a standing army. Only a palace guard. And I plan to keep it that way." She sweeps a river stone clean with her hand and offers the spot to Griselda, who hops up. "No poison necessary."

"That mob on our doorstep sure looked like an army." Griselda is many things, but Marianne has realized it is a mistake to think her anything but absolutely shrewd; her doting, slightly unbalanced air hides the sharper focus in her eyes.

"Scrounged up at the last minute." Marianne sits beside her, stretching out her legs. "That was Roland's dream, not mine. I'm sure my father's dismissed them already." She pauses. "Does Bog have an army?"

Griselda looks across the river. Bog is directing the demolition at the base of the tree trunk, widening out the opening into the castle. His largest goblins are hard at work; Marianne can tell them apart from one another now by a few features, by the shape of their teeth or the color of their eyes or the hang of their ears. Brutus is at Bog's side, steadily ramming a loosened chunk of wood.

"Goblins aren't organized enough for armies," Griselda says. "If our home is threatened, we rally. Don't need an army stronger than that."

Marianne sweeps the hair back from her face. "There's so much I don't know about this place."

"Pah," Griselda dismisses. "You learn quick enough. It's not complicated."

Marianne tries to think how to phrase her foolish worries out loud—just more pointless anxiety, again, that there will be resistance to change, and what of it? Isn't there  _always_ resistance to change? There will be an adjustment period, and then life will go on.

But she does wonder—she  _worries_ —that it can't carry over to her personal life, that she must lead the fields into this new age but not partake, that some delicate balance will tip and she will bring ruin to them all if she indulges. She watches Bog, his scepter flashing in the late afternoon light, and the fear tears at her insides, clawing away all her determination. It has been bubbling up with the realization that she's been here three weeks, that she cannot use the excuse of helping build Bog's new castle forever, that it will be done soon and she will have to return home; it blindsides her, the sheer panic she feels at the idea of leaving him.

What will happen to  _them_ , when they are separated by a border again?

She's opened her mouth to speak—to say what, she's no idea—when Griselda sits up a little straighter and sings, slightly off-key, " _Pretty as a midsummer's morn!_ "

Marianne sits up, too, her heart beating wildly in her chest, and there's  _Dawn_ , coming down the rise on the back of that giant, terrifying lizard, four palace guards flanking her.

"Dawn," she manages, as her sister in her dainty blue gown flutters to the ground.

"Marianne!" she shouts back, grinning, and it's not quick enough for her to run, she has to  _fly_ , hitting Marianne so hard that the breath is nearly knocked from her lungs. Automatically, she raises her arms to hug Dawn back, snapping her mouth shut over her shock.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, pulling back.

The pure joy on Dawn's face falters. "Didn't Bog tell you I was coming?" she asks.

"No," Marianne says blankly.

She hears the whir of his wings just before he lands, and then he's there, and the look on his face is a blade in her gut: resignation, and he doesn't quite meet her eye, and she  _understands_ , suddenly, she knows that everything she's worried about, he's worried about too, but he didn't—

He didn't  _tell_ her.

"Did Dad send you to bring me home, then?" she says, and she doesn't recognize her own voice, it's gone so cold.

Dawn gapes up at her. "No—"

Marianne whirls on Bog. "I can't  _believe_ you didn't tell me."

She can read the misery on him like a festering wound, his shoulders hunched, his fingers fidgeting around his scepter. "She's early," he mutters. "I didn't expect her until tomorrow."

"Marianne," Dawn tries to interject, tugging on her arm, but Marianne doesn't listen.

"If you wanted me gone, you could have just said so."

He  _does_ look at her for that, his mouth agape. "I do nae  _want_ ye gone—"

"Oh, no, you just let four guards and my sister come waltzing across your border for a  _visit_!"

"Yes, that's exactly what he did!" Dawn cries, rushing between them, one hand held out to each. "Marianne—I wrote to Bog because it's proper, I couldn't cross the border without asking his permission, but Dad was getting  _really_ worried, so I told him I'd come and visit you for a few days and report back and—and you can stay! That's all!"

It's her sister's face—brows pulled up in an anxious line, her eyes gleaming with surprised tears—that stops Marianne's anger, snuffs it out like water dousing a flame.

"That's all," she repeats.

" _Yes_." Dawn wilts in relief, loops her arm through Marianne's, and tugs hard. "Now come on and show me my room, okay?"

Marianne lets herself be pulled away, and doesn't look back at Bog, who hasn't said another word.

"Go help," Dawn says to the guard, fluttering her hand at the obvious construction, and they fly off to do just that. "Come on, Lizzy. I see a nice patch of riverbank over there for you."

The lizard makes its besotted lizard sound, and Dawn tugs at her arm again, and Marianne finally takes the lead, showing her through the throne room and up to the guest rooms. Dawn turns to her as soon as the door's closed, the pleasant look melting from her face.

"What was  _that_ about?" she demands, her tiny fists balled on her hips.

Marianne puts her hand to her forehead, thumb digging into one temple. "I know."

"You  _totally_ lost it!"

"I know, I know—"

"The look on Boggy's face!"

"You've  _got_ to not call him that," Marianne begs. "Seriously—"

"What is going  _on_ , Marianne?"

She opens her mouth, but nothing at all comes out. Finally, it's hit her—the aftermath of her quick temper, her presumptions, and the shame wells up hot in her stomach. She drags the hand on her forehead down to cover her eyes, trying to find some peace in the cool dark there.

Dawn's tiny, light footsteps come slowly forward, and she pulls Marianne's hand away from her face, taking it in both of hers. "Talk to me," she says—so soft, so  _Dawn_ , that Marianne could almost cry from the familiarity of it.

"I'm supposed to be," and her voice  _hitches_ , catching in her throat, "Queen of the  _fields_ , Dawn. How can I be that, and…and  _this_?"

She's not saying it at all clearly, but Dawn, of course, understands her exactly. Her mouth thins; her eyes narrow. "You'll figure it out," she says, almost like a threat.

"But Dad—"

"Always said you'd be stronger with a king at your side," Dawn says, smiling knowingly.

"It's not  _funny_ , Dawn, he didn't mean—"

"So what if he didn't? It's your  _life_ , Marianne, and I'm not going to let you talk yourself out of being  _happy_ just because you think it'll be bad for the stupid crown. It will be  _fine_." Dawn rolls her eyes. "Look, you and Bog can just split your time between here and the fields. You both have loving families who will look after the kingdom while you're gone."

"Split our time? Why would we—"

"I mean, you won't want to be apart when you're  _married_ ," Dawn goes on, as if this is obvious.

" _Married_?" Marianne repeats.

Dawn frowns, brows knitting. "Yes,  _married_."

Marianne gapes at her. "Who said anything about  _marriage_? I don't—we've only—I just met him three  _weeks_ ago!"

"But you love him," Dawn says, matter-of-factly, "so—eventually—ease Dad into the idea, and in a year or so…"

She trails off, and her eyes widen fractionally, as though she's understood something from the look on Marianne's face.

"You haven't told him," she says.

Marianne turns her back, folds her arms over her chest. If she could, she would sink down to the floor and vanish.

"But it's so obvious." Dawn sounds confused, as if this is a situation she just can't fathom. Of course, she—who blurted out her feelings the instant she realized she possessed them—wouldn’t understand. "I mean—I was dusted, but I still remember everything. The way he looked at you! And the way you  _cried_  when you thought he was dead—"

"I know." She can barely get the words out.

Dawn touches her shoulder. "Why haven't you told him?"

"It was  _one night_ , Dawn. It's—it was—I barely know him. How can I…"  _Love him_ , she tries to say, but her throat sticks around the words. "You've known Sunny your whole life. Of course you love him. But Bog—"

"It doesn't work like that," Dawn says, so gently. "Not always."

She thinks it's a little rich for  _Dawn_ —who is, after all, still a teenager, prone to crushes that last three days before flying away—to try to tell her how love works.

"Roland courted me for more than a year," she says, flat. "That seemed like enough time, but…"  _But it wasn't. It wasn't, and I didn't know him at all, and what if—_

She can't even  _think_ such blasphemy about Bog, but the truth is that she has her wild, gullible heart to keep safe, and it has proven before that it cannot be trusted.

But Dawn has come to a different realization entirely, judging by the relieved sigh she lets out. " _That's_ why you went off at Bog. Him not telling you…it reminded you of Roland lying to you. I'm  _sure_ he meant to—I am definitely early—"

"How do you know?" Marianne cuts in. "You don't know him, either."

Dawn's fingers tighten on her shoulder and turn her around, so suddenly that Marianne almost stumbles. "I know that it's better to go ask for the truth than to sit here making up worst case scenarios," she says fiercely. "Maybe he's just as stupid with worry as you are, maybe he's afraid you'll leave, maybe—"

"Okay, okay, I get it." Marianne frees herself and sits down, heavily, on the bed. "I'll go in…a bit. And talk to him." She pats the mushroom beside her. "Where's Sunny, anyway?"

Dawn lets out a gusty sigh, flopping down beside her. "Being worked to death by Dad, so he sent Lizzy with me instead. He wanted to own up to the consequences for the whole love potion thing—"

"And he  _should_ ," Marianne says forcefully. "He almost started a war. And if he  _had_ gotten it to work on you—"

"I know, I know," Dawn says, her wings fluttering with agitation. "But you know he'd never have done it if Roland hadn't been whispering in his ear." Seeing Marianne about to interrupt, she rushes on. "Oh! Roland's stupid lackeys got caught sneaking back across the border a few days ago. They haven't found Roland yet, though."

"He's probably still in the forest," Marianne mutters. "Probably fell in love with the first goblin he saw and wants to stay here, now. Just my luck."

"What if there wasn't anyone around when he woke up?" Dawn asks, her eyes wide. "What if—what if he saw his reflection in the water, or something—"

"No way," Marianne says, but she's already started snickering. "He can't possibly be  _more_ in love with himself than he already is."

They catch one another's eye, and it's like a spell has been broken; Marianne howls with laughter so hard that she has to clutch her stomach to ease the ache, and Dawn's no better, rolling around on the mushroom with her giggles reaching for the ceiling.

"Okay," Dawn says finally, sitting up, " _you_  need to go find Bog, and I'm going to explore."

"Be  _careful_ ," Marianne warns, getting up. "The goblins aren't totally used to us yet."

Dawn rolls her eyes, and she's just a little sister again, petulant and a bit overconfident. "I'll be fine.  _Go_."

Marianne goes, descending the stairs to the throne room. She's lucky that so few goblins witnessed her little outburst by the river, because no one greets her any differently than usual—Thang waving wildly from across the room, Brutus grunting as she passes. She doesn't see Bog amidst the dust, so she descends into the dungeon to check there.

It's after sundown that she finally finds him: standing at the edge of their sparring ring, staring out over the forest.

She tries to approach quietly, but his hearing is sharp. "When are you leaving, then?" he says, and it's the cruelest she's heard his voice since that night, a growl of words that wakes the shame in her all over again.

"I'm not," she says. "Unless…unless you want me to, after…that."

His head turns. He cuts a frightening profile against the dim moonlight in the forest, his height intimidating, his shoulders imposing, the scars and shadows across his face so many jagged lines—but she wants nothing more than to step into his arms, feel his hands on her back, pull the tension from his bones.

"I really blew it," she mutters.

He turns toward her fully now, but with the moon behind him, she still can't make out the expression on his face.

"I should have told you." His voice is low. "I didn't…I didnae want you to go—"

"I know," she says, yanking a hand through her hair. "We're both such…idiots." She clears her throat and rushes on. "I'm kind of—sensitive—about being…kept in the dark. Because of—"

"The guy," he finishes.

She nods, knotting her hands in front of her. "Yeah."

He takes a slow step toward her, giving her the opportunity to back away if she wants, but she doesn't. Her eyes have finally adjusted, and she makes out the apprehension in the lines of his face—wishes she could reach out and smooth it away with her fingers.

"I've been…" He grumbles—half a scoff, really, deep in his throat. "Worrying, I suppose. About how long this will last. I can't keep you from your fields forever, and I can't leave the forest for long—"

"I have it on good authority," Marianne sighs, rolling her eyes, "that we are being ridiculous on this front, too."

He starts to smile. "Dawn?"

"You would not believe how good she's gotten at lecturing me," she says, smiling too.

The distance between them becomes truly unbearable, and they both move forward at once: she wraps her arms around him and he does the same in turn, and for a long moment, they just stand there, her cheek pressed to his chest, drawing comfort from one another.

She should tell him—now, while they're both spilling their guts, anyway—but he tips her chin up and kisses her, and she doesn't  _forget_ , not exactly, but she  _is_ so buried under the emotion itself that there is no possible way she can give voice to it. She tightens her hands on his shoulders and tries to  _show_ him instead, and by the way his thumb sweeps over the rise of her cheek, by the way his fingers curl over the curve of her hip, she thinks he understands. She  _hopes_  he does, because she—she  _burns_ for him, the misunderstanding doesn't seem to have curbed that so much as fanned the flames, and she rises up on her toes to press closer, and he makes a sound deep in his throat that she's never heard before, but she thinks she would like to crawl inside it, live there, maybe—

His hand is at the small of her back, beneath her wings, tracing the curve of her spine, deliberate, and she never knew she could  _want_ like this.

He pulls back from her—she braces her hands flat on his chest, trying to get her breath back—and mutters, "Do ye hear that?" in a voice so deliciously rough that goosebumps erupt all the way down her arms.

"Uh," she says—very eloquent—and strains her ears, and then she hears it: the sound of two voices echoing up through the hatch, one throaty and warbling, the other bright and high. She stares up at Bog, and he looks back at her in horror, the realization hitting them both at once.

"Ye left her  _alone_ ," he hisses, "with my  _mother_?"

She slaps a hand over her mouth, trying desperately not to laugh. "I left her  _alone_ , your mother must have just  _found_ her—"

The chatter of giggling rises up, and Marianne swears she hears the word  _wedding_ squealed in twin voices of enthusiasm.

"Let's go," she says desperately, pulling Bog away from the hatch, "before they find us, before—"

He's laughing now, too, a rumbling chuckle deep in his chest, but he follows her into the sky without protest, his fingers wrapped tight around hers.


	8. Chapter 8

With not two, but _six_ fairy guards lingering around his castle, Bog feels more than ever as if he's being watched. Marianne's two have yet to remove their helms in his presence, and Dawn's four are no different. It is not unlike having some sort of sentient statue unnervingly record his every move.

"That's just what they're like," Marianne tells him in an undertone, near dusk on the third day of Dawn's visit. "Take themselves pretty seriously. When they're on duty, they're on. You sort of learn to…ignore them."

He doesn't point out that they have swords, and to ignore them would be to invite disaster, but she seems to understand by the look on his face.

"Look, in a few days, it'll be back to two again," she says, laying a hand on his arm. "We'll hardly notice them. Now. What's your verdict on the throne?"

She turns, taking her hand back, and he follows regretfully. The new cutting from the briar patch looms at the other end of the room, raised on ten steps from the stump of the tree. The seat itself has been carved, smoothed out so that he won't hurt himself—he does have soft bits, even if they're fewer than other goblins—and it casts an imposing shadow against the back wall, tall and spidery lines thrown against the hollow of the tree.

He grunts. "It will do."

She shoots a smile up at him. "Don't sound too excited, now. Wouldn't want to pull something."

"It will take…getting used to." He scratches at his chin, frowning at the spiky chair. "There are not nearly enough bones in this new castle."

She laughs, her eyes squinting up with the force of it, and one corner of his mouth hitches up automatically in response. "Think I might take a leaf out of your book," she says. "Fairy thrones are much more…delicate. Decorative instead of threatening. Maybe that should change when I'm queen. I think it'd suit me better than all those flowers and vines."

"Your father wears armor," he points out. " _Shiny_ armor, but—"

"And so will I," she says thoughtfully, "but in a different color. I _hate_ green. Speaking of all things shiny, have you seen Dawn today?" Marianne rises up on tiptoe, squinting around, as if her sister doesn't stand out the minute she enters a room. "It makes me nervous when both she and your mother vanish at once."

"I saw her at breakfast," Bog grumbles. "The one she woke me for. Does she _always_ get up at sunrise?"

Marianne folds her arms over her chest and raises one eyebrow at him, her lips pulling into a now-familiar smirk. "Her name _is_ Dawn," she says.

He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, letting out a grumble of irritation. Of course, _Dawn_ , with her sunshine-gold hair and her summer sky-blue eyes would be the literal embodiment of her name with _every_ action, not just in appearance. Laughing, Marianne shifts closer to him, and he automatically hunches down to meet her; she brushes a kiss across his cheek.

"Come on," she says. "Maybe she's prepared dinner, too."

They're only halfway across the throne room when Dawn bursts from the long hallway on the left, shortly followed by Griselda. Marianne lets out a low groan at the sight, and Dawn's eyes fix on them immediately. Bog, who has rarely been cowed by anything, still has to fight the impulse to flee every time Dawn comes within singing distance.

"Oh, good, we found you!" she says, rushing forward—even walking, her wings flutter wildly, carrying her a bit faster to her goal. "C'mon, Marianne, we have a surprise for you!"

Marianne glances up at Bog, her eyes widening a fraction. "A surprise?" she repeats, and he nearly smiles at the strain in her voice. She's doing her best to sound enthusiastic, but instead seems as if she's fighting a toothache.

"A surprise," Griselda confirms, coming to a stop before them. "You two've been workin' so hard—getting this place in shape all day, going over your plans all night! You need a break."

Bog does not like where this is going. His mother's idea of a _break_ is not usually aligned with his own. There's a touch of panic in Marianne's eyes now, and he wishes—a little wildly—that he'd never agreed to let Dawn cross the border.

"We were actually going to go over something important at dinner," Marianne interjects, too quickly. "Planning—uhm—really solidifying the first phase of Operation Diplomacy. It's at a critical stage, and—"

"Ugh, Marianne," Dawn interrupts, propping her fists on her hips. "It can wait until tomorrow, can't it?"

Dawn does not need to be dosed with a love potion to produce that wide-eyed, earnest look. She levels it straight at Marianne, her brows just slightly raised.

"It…" Marianne casts a desperate look at Bog. "We really should—"

"Bog agrees you deserve a break," Dawn says, turning those guileless eyes on _him_ , curse her and every fairy who conspired to make such a manipulative creature, "don't you, Bog?"

He stammers. "I—ah—yes—?"

"Then why're we still standing around?" Griselda demands, tugging on his arm. "Now, Marianne, you go with Dawn, and meet us back at the dining room when you're ready, okay?"

Dawn slides her arm through Marianne's and pulls her away, chattering. Marianne looks over her shoulder and mouths _you weak **idiot**_ , making sure to form the words very slowly and carefully so that he can't mistake them, but there's no real malice in her eyes, only a sort of helpless resignation. He grimaces back at her in commiseration and allows his mother to lead him away.

"Don't look so depressed, she'll be right back," she says dismissively. "Now—here we are."

The dining room has been redecorated since that morning. At least, he thinks, it is not all over _hearts_ this time. The light is low. There is a topiary in the corner, though more subtle than the last; he suspects his mother hasn't had time to get back to her more intricate carvings. This one is in a simple enough shape—he recognizes his scepter and Marianne's sword, crossed at the center. Glowing amber lanterns dangle from the ceiling, and elegant spider silk drapes the chairs. They've moved the long table against the far wall, and a small round table, with space only for two, sits before the hearth.

"Now," she goes on, "Dawn thinks you ought to wear this."

She sticks Marianne's boutonniere to his chest without any further consultation.

"And let go of _this_ ," she says, tugging the scepter from his hands. She props it beside the hearth.

"Why," he says, trying very hard not to grind his teeth, "do you do this? We are getting along—"

"Just fine," Griselda agrees, nodding, "but you know—and this is just my advice, take it or leave it—you might have fewer shouting matches if you ever sat down and talked to one another. Love is _work_ , and you two have been so focused on your kingdoms that you've hardly spent time alone together without a practice sword in your hand."

"The kingdom is important," he mutters—a feeble defense, and he knows it. He cannot even begin to address the remark on _love_.

"The kingdom's not going to keep you warm at night," she says sagely. "Now—Marianne will be down in a minute, so take the night, enjoy each other's company, and go back to work in the morning."

She doesn't give him the chance to fight her on it. She's quick when she wants to be, damn her, and she's off down the hallway before he can call her back.

He sags, turns his back on the doorway. There are covered platters at the table, food already prepared, a bouquet of tiny Venus flytraps between them, and one corner of his mouth does lift at that. They remind him of the night that everything changed—her fear fading to joyful laughter, her hand grasped in his.

There is no singing, at least, no watchful spy in the corner of the room trying to determine how the evening is going. It is more…subtle, than that first night. Perhaps they can both enjoy it. Perhaps—

He hears some noise behind him and turns, and Marianne is there, some combination of a shy smile and a wince on her face. She hasn't foregone her usual makeup, eyes as striking as ever, but there _is_ something—different—about her, and he realizes it is the dress: a purple so deep that it's nearly black, a high collar outlined in gold, her arms bare but for the vine-like bracelets on her wrists, rising up toward her elbows. There's a fresh flower in her hair: dark blue, from the field, and he's sure his mother must have told Dawn. She wears slippers instead of boots, and though her sword is at her hip and she stands like she's bracing for a fight, she pointedly unbuckles the sheath and leaves the weapon propped near the hearth beside his scepter—within reach, but out of mind.

"Hi," she says, smiling a little wider now. "You'll catch gnats, leaving your mouth open that way."

He snaps it shut, clears his throat. "I—ah—"

"I know," she says ruefully, her hands falling to bunch in the dress. "It's excessive, right? Guess Dawn decided to make me a new wardrobe while I was away. I haven't worn a dress in over a year, and _she_ thinks it's because I got tired of my old colors." She rolls her eyes, but he sees the way her fingers caress the silk as she lets it fall. "I mean, I don't think I could fight _Thang_ in this, let alone someone truly threatening."

When she's nervous, she babbles; when he's nervous, he can't string three words together, can't do anything but coast along on the rise and fall of her voice, buffeted by the tide.

But he tries—let it be known that he _tries_. "I think you could," he says, "if you wanted."

Her eyes flick to his—surprise, and a little gratitude—and she releases the dress, her smirk settling back into place on her lips. "Well," she says. "Maybe you can help me test it, after dinner."

"I could," he agrees.

They pull out their seats and sit, and for a moment, neither of them moves to uncover their platters.

"Our families are spectacular meddlers," she finally declares, shaking her head.

He clears his throat. "Much as it— _terrifies_ me…" She laughs at his shudder, reaching for her goblet. "It's…a relief…that they get along."

"Yeah," she agrees, mouth quirking. "Bodes well, right? And your mom can wear anyone down from sheer persistence, so my dad might as well pack in and go home."

"Does he _need_ wearing down?"

"He _always_ needs wearing down," she sighs, slumping back into her chair. "He used to be a little less—you know—control-oriented, but after Mom died, I think he…" She shakes her head, takes a deep sip from her goblet.

"When…ah." There is no delicate way to ask that, so he desists. "Never mind."

"It's alright." Her face has softened; she watches him over the rim of the goblet. "It was ten years ago. I was barely a teenager, Dawn was still a kid…she barely remembers Mom. Sometimes, when the light hits her just right…she looks just like her. The resemblance is uncanny, the older she gets."

He pulls the covers from both their platters. Marianne leans forward to inspect the offerings, mouth pursed in interest.

"I don't tell her that," she goes on, quieter. "She shouldn't—she's as different from my mother as dawn from dusk," and she smiles at her own joke, and he groans good-naturedly, "and she shouldn't have that…pressure…on her."

"Kind of you," he tells her. "It's hard to consider your reflection and see someone…else."

She gives him a curious look. "Your father?"

"Marginally. He was better-looking. His parents could never fathom what he saw in my mother." He gives a disgruntled snort. "I did not care for them much."

She takes a wary bite of the mushroom stew and her face relaxes, a surprised hum of pleasure in her throat. "Better-looking?" she repeats.

"Fewer scars." He does not touch the old, deep ravines on his face, but her eyes catch on them all the same. "He avoided conflict better than I have."

"Oh, I don't know," she says thoughtfully, and if it were anyone else scrutinizing him so closely—not in fear, as they ought, but in deliberation—he would shrink away. "I think they add…something."

"Something," he echoes, nonplussed, and tends to his food while she thinks about it. There is some unfamiliar spice in the mushrooms; he suspects that Dawn brought a great deal of things with her from the fields, including but not limited to dresses and herbs.

"Character," Marianne decides, brandishing her spoon at him. "Bet you could tell some good stories about how you got them."

"And some embarrassing ones," he grumbles.

Her eyes twinkle. "Oooh, those first."

"I don't give those away for free."

"I'll tell you one of mine, then," she says, grinning, "and we'll be even."

He raises his brows. "Go ahead."

"Oh, no. You first."

"No."

She sulks. "You are _bad_ at compromise, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Near daily, thank you."

She lets out an exasperated sigh, spooning up another clump of stew. "Fine. Okay. When I was first training—you know, with a stick and three pixies—"

He can't help it; he snorts, and she glares across the table at him.

"Everyone. Starts. Somewhere," she grits out. " _Anyway_. I was working on my stability—on a log, you know, figuring it would encourage me to be _precise_ about my footing, but I lost my balance, and before I knew it, the stream caught my wings, and I rode the damn thing all the way across the fields. Nearly drowned. No one ever found out, either, I stayed out in the sun long enough for my dress to dry and then came home like nothing had happened. Now." Her eyes narrow. "Talk, Bog."

He spreads his wings over the arms of his chair, and her eyes track the movement. "The largest hole," he says, because his mother will blab about it eventually, anyway, "was torn by a frog."

Her hand flies to her mouth, but he catches the corner of her grin.

"A frog?" she asks through her fingers.

"Mistook me for a dragonfly," he grouses. "Happens often enough, but I wasn't as quick when I was younger." She lets out a strained giggle. "At least I didn't inflict it on myself," he says pointedly.

"Hey!" she cries. "Those are _fighting_ words—"

"Let's fight, then."

They sit there, half-grinning, half-glaring at one another, and abandon their half-eaten meals to go in search of practice weapons by mutual, silent accord. There's a wooden staff and sword on the long table against the far wall.

"Aww," Marianne says, smiling. "They're learning." She tosses the staff to him. "Bring it on, your majesty. I would like to defend my honor."

They find out that she can, indeed, fight wearing the dress—that Dawn made it loose enough around her legs that she would not be inhibited, but not with such an excess of fabric that she'll trip on it—and they're in the middle of an energetic fight, placing bets on which decorations will be destroyed in the crossfire first, when Stuff and Thang come sprinting in, out of breath, dewy with perspiration.

"Sire," Thang gasps, "sire, there's—news—"

"It's the fairy," Stuff interrupts. "The shiny one."

The color drains from Marianne's face.

"He's asking…" Thang gulps, catching sight of the snarl growing at Bog's mouth. "He's asking for the princess, majesty."


	9. Chapter 9

They'd put him in the dungeon, at least. According to Stuff, he'd come quietly enough—asking for Marianne, but docile.

But she knows better. Roland isn't _docile_. Roland is _acting_.

She is blind with her rage. It was too much to hope that he would vanish from all their lives, sink into the muck of some swamp and never come back, it was too much to hope that she could forge ahead and never see his stupid smug face again. She paces Bog's throne room, and her slippers do not _thwack_ against the floor as satisfyingly as her boots do, and she wants to tear them off and throw them at the wall. She imagines Dawn's face at the destruction of her finery, and the violent wish leaves her.

Bog offers no insight of his own; he sits, a good distance from her, not on his throne but on the steps leading to it, as still as she is turbulent.

"What are you going to do with him?" she demands, when she can stand the silence no longer.

His brows furrow; beneath them, his eyes are wary. " _Do_ with him?"

She folds her arms over her chest, digging her fingers into her flesh until she can feel each crescent of her nails. "The man almost _killed_ you."

He twists his scepter a little, so the wicked end of it digs into the wood at his feet.  "He is not my subject to penalize."

"Neither was the Sugar Plum Fairy," she snaps, "and you had no trouble holding—"

"If things are to be different between our kingdoms," he interrupts, "I cannot act as I have before."

Her arms fall. "You're going to do _nothing_?" She can hardly believe it of him.

He shrugs. "He can stay in his cell until you depart. You can escort him back to the Fairy King, and _he_ can do as he likes with him."

"No."

His eyes narrow; one brow cocks. "No?"

"If you release him to my father, he'll just let him go." Her heart is racing—a frightened bird, trapped by the rain that drops quick and sharp against the walls of the castle. Her fingers curl into fists.

Slowly, Bog gets to his feet. It takes time, unfolding his limbs. "I don't believe that. Dawn's told us both the price Sunny's paying—"

Marianne laughs, and Bog does not continue; she thinks she sees concern cross his face in the shift of his mouth and turns her back on it.

"Sunny is an elf," she tells the wall, pressing one fist to her chest. Beneath the dress, she can feel her flesh move with the beat—too fast, too fast, an animal tearing at her sinew and bone. "My father has loved Roland since the day they met—like a _son_. No matter how I distrusted him after—after—" She draws a deep, shuddering breath. She cannot seem to get enough air. "Dad never listened. Even when Roland _spelled it out_ , in front of the _entire court_ , he thought I should give him another chance."

Bog has moved; she hears it, the deliberate, slow pace of his footsteps, coming nearer.

"Roland dusted you in front of him," he points out. "He did not seem too happy about it."

She's shaking, a tremor that she can't stop even when she digs her nails into her palms, even when her fingers are pressed so hard together that her knuckles have gone white.

"I can't risk it," she says.

Bog doesn't touch her, and she's grateful, because she thinks she would lose what little composure she has left if he did. He's close enough to reach, if she would only turn around, but if she looks at him she'll falter.

"Why don't we see what he has to say for himself, first," Bog says.

She doesn't say that it won't change her mind, because he would have to stop her then, so she nods and follows him into the dungeons and she does not put her hand on the hilt of her sword—no matter how she wants to.

She and Bog stop a good distance from the bars Roland's standing behind, and at her first glimpse of him, she realizes that something _is_ wrong.

His armor is dirty. There's pieces missing, in fact, one gauntlet stripped away. There's mud in his sunshine-bright hair. And he looks lost—dazed, confused. She has never once seen him confused—always calculating, always cunning, focused, never directionless. When he catches sight of her, his eyes brighten just a bit, but it's nothing like the fierce gleam of a villain about to get his way.

It's uncomfortable, seeing him like this. Turns her stomach.

"Marianne," he says, bare hands flexing around the thorny bars of his cell. "You've gotta help me."

She laughs, sudden and harsh. Beside her, she feels Bog shift, but he does not interfere.

"Why," she says, drawing out the words, giving them extra time to pass through his meaty skull, "would I help _you_?"

"I have to find her." His voice pleads; his bare hand tightens on the cut of a thorn. She sees the wound open, the blood drip, but he doesn't even notice. "I don't understand why she left me. We were doing so well—"

"Who is _she_?" Marianne interrupts.

"I don't know her name." His face screws up, as though he's trying to remember, but then relaxes again into that panicked, vaguely vacant expression. "It didn't matter. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters but her. We can make it work, I can _show_ her—" He trails off into mumbles she doesn't understand, half-words; his eyes have drifted away from hers to dart absently around the dungeon instead, seeing nothing.

"Is he still _dusted_?" Marianne asks Bog.

"Sounds like whatever he fell in love with flew off," he agrees.

"Left me," Roland repeats. " _Left_ me. Left _me_."

"Is he broken?" she mutters, disgusted. She doesn't want to admit it, but she doesn't want to get close enough to wound him or kill him or—whatever she planned. It doesn't feel right anymore.

She wants to see that smug light in his eyes go out. He wouldn't even understand it, now.

"Whatever creature he fell in love with wasn't dusted," Bog says, giving Roland a look full of distaste. "And she doesn't want him, it appears—"

"Doesn't want _me_ ," Roland repeats brokenly. "Doesn't _want_ me."

"—the Sugar Plum Fairy might have a solution," Bog says, digging his fingers into his temple. "Maybe she has access to the appropriate ingredients for the antidote, now." Turning, he beckons to Brutus, who hovers at the bottom of the stairs. "Watch him," he orders. "We don't know how dangerous he might be."

It makes her spine crawl to do it, but Marianne turns her back on Roland. He understands only that they're leaving, breaks his babbling to call after her, "Wait—aren't you going to help—?"

They take the stairs. His voice rising after them is like that first night, all broken singing and disjointed wailing, and her ears curl at the horror of it, the sensory agony of it. When Bog shuts the door on the dungeon at last, she nearly wilts in relief, hands clutched so tight into her arms that she'll surely have bruises tomorrow.

Dawn flutters out of the shadows, concern creasing her face. "Is he…?"

"Contained," Bog says. "Whatever he fell in love with left him."

Dawn's jaw falls open.

"I need you to go home, Dawn," Marianne says.

Her sister turns to her, open mouth curving swiftly into a frown. "I don't think—"

"I need you to convince the Sugar Plum Fairy to make the antidote," she goes on dully. "Or find out if she even _can_ make the antidote. Send word to me; I'll bring him back to the fields then."

"Marianne—"

Dawn reaches for her, but she flinches away. She doesn't look at Dawn, but she knows she understands, wishes she didn't—wishes she never had to pull away, retreat, that someone could follow her even here, to the darkest, twisted parts of her.

"You should leave in the morning," she says, and walks away across the throne room, not sparing a backward glance for either of them.

The buzz in her head is too loud to get her thoughts straight. She's not sure she even has any thoughts; it's all empty up there, just a blanket of fear, muffling everything else. A little anger, sure, but the comforting heat of her rage has faded now that she's seen him, what he's been reduced to. She wants it back—wishes he would smirk at her from behind those bars, give her a _reason_ —

She sits down on her mushroom bed and puts her face in her hands, because Roland, of course, has ruined things for her once again. He has called an end to this momentary escape from her fields, stopped her adventure with Bog before it's even started. Whether Dawn can get the antidote or not, Marianne will not be able to stay here much longer. She has a few days, maybe a week, and then she'll need to escort Roland home in chains. Even that will not give her enough satisfaction.

Marianne wonders if the potion, the unrequited love, could kill him if she let it rot in his heart for long enough. It would serve him right, she thinks savagely, to die of heartbreak when that's all he's inflicted his whole life—but it wouldn't even be _real_. A pale imitation, nothing more. Nothing like the agony she's known.

The rain eases up a little outside, but she can still hear the fierce wind; she wishes it would go so that she could safely leave for a little while, fly until this stupid fear and hurt is stripped away.

The door creaks.

"I don't want to talk," she says without looking. "Just go away."

"Now," Griselda's voice says, "is that any way to treat your hostess?"

Marianne doesn't search for the words to answer her. She turns her face away. Griselda's footsteps cross the floor, and then the mushroom dips as she sits down.

"Dawn and Bog are going out of their minds with worry," she says, frank as ever. "They're afraid to bother you, but I'm not, so I told them I'd check on you."

Marianne snorts—against her will, but there it is.

"Tell me what's going on in that unruly head of yours, little briar."

She presses her hands to her cheeks. "I hate him," she says; she's afraid to look too close at the way the word twists her voice. "It's not just what he did to me, which is bad enough, but what he did to…everyone. Manipulated Sunny, held a sword to Dawn's throat, destroyed Bog's castle. He's _dangerous_ , and now he's _here_ and acting like he's…not." She gets up to pace, hands curling into fists. If only there was something to hit. "And I'll have to return him to my father, I can't send him back with Dawn, can't take the risk that he'd do something, so I'll have to go—soon, sooner than I planned on leaving, and I—"

Her throat closes, stops _don't want to go_ from leaving her mouth, because if she admits it…oh, if she admits it. Isn't it the same as saying she'd turn her back on her home, her birthright, forever? Isn't it the same as all she'd have given up for a lesser man—her power, her agency—and how is it better now?

Much as she hates to—much as she hates to examine _any_ complicated, painful feeling—she tries to look more closely at this one. No, she doesn't want to leave her people, not really. She loves her fields, holds them close in her heart—her home, her kingdom, hers to protect and nurture, and she still wants that. She just—doesn't want to do it alone. If only her father could hear her; she can imagine how he'd beam with relief, at least until he worked out the identity of her chosen partner.

She loves her kingdom. She loves Bog. She will do her best to keep both. It’s just that, when she goes, the magic of that night—the magic that’s followed them ever since—it will break, so much spider silk severed by the point of her sword, and she’s afraid that it will never come back.

"You had to leave sometime," Griselda points out. "And you can always come back. I don't know you all that well, but I know one thing. You don't let anything stand in the way of getting to someone you love."

Her shoulders hunch up. "How do you know?" She doesn't know if it will reassure her, but she'd like to hear it, even so.

Griselda hops down from the mushroom. "Didn't you come to the Dark Forest—which you'd never heard a good word about your whole life—all alone, with just a sword, to save your sister?"

She doesn't feel the same as that Marianne; she feels older and colder and like she's lost her nerve, which isn't comforting at all.

Griselda turns her around, firm but gentle, and takes her hands to squeeze them. "Whatever's going to happen is going to happen. Is it any use worrying about it now, when you should be enjoying the time you've got left here? I bet there's a lot of headaches waiting for you when you get back. I've heard about those fairy council meetings of yours."

This laugh is reluctant, but genuine. "Maybe you should come along and see for yourself."

Griselda grins wide. "Maybe I should. In the name of diplomacy."

Marianne thinks about _that_ —short Griselda, a special chair pulled up to the long table so that she can see over it, arguing with the elders, _browbeating_ them—and actually smiles. "Will you?" she asks, in earnest this time. "I'd love for you to meet my father."

"I'm sure Bog can spare me," Griselda agrees, patting her hand. "Now—you get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

She already does, sort of, but she knows that sleep does have a habit of brushing away the excess—that things won't feel so dire in the morning light—so she hangs the new blue flower for drying and combs her hair. Just as she's toeing off her slippers, someone knocks.

She turns, and there's Bog, standing awkward and hunched in the doorway, and her heart—which had sort of shriveled away at Roland's presence, curling in small to protect itself—reaches out to him like it knows him, like it wants to be taken into his hands and made whole again.

If there's anyone who knows about dark, twisted parts, it's Bog.

His eyes move from her combed hair to her kicked-off slippers, and he says, "I'll let you rest," and begins to turn away.

"No," she says, before she can lose her nerve, "Bog—wait."

He does, one foot over the threshold.

She hastens on, her mouth dry, her fingers twisting around one another. "Roland…really threw me off. I don't know how to…" _Explain—how broken I still am, how angry and hurt and I don't want to be_ —but she can't make her tongue form the words, show her vulnerable and scared.

But she moves toward him, at least, and the relief of his proximity reaches out to envelop her. She tilts her head up to keep her eyes on his face, all the familiar hard angles and edges that have become so comforting to her.

"Tell me how I can help," he says. He looks as if he'd do anything she asked, and it should scare her, that promise in his eyes, but it doesn't.

She swallows. "Stay," she whispers. "Please."

He reaches out to touch her, hand sliding beneath the collar of her dress, curving around her neck. His thumb brushes her sprinting pulse on its way to her cheek, and she leans into his touch but keeps her eyes unblinking on his, hoping her sincerity shows on her face.

He doesn't tell her yes or no; his arm loops around her waist, drawing her close, bringing her up to meet him, and then his mouth is parting hers, and that, she thinks, is answer enough.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm so sorry to have kept this hanging here for more than a year. Yikes. But, it's wrapped up now, and the last four chapters begin here, posted. Enjoy, and if you're still reading after all this time, thank you. <3

He wakes up sometime around dawn to the barest shift of weight on the mushroom beside him. A warm, soft hand touches his cheek and lingers there, curved to his face. He's so afraid to chase it away, to chase her away, that he barely breathes, straining to hear somehow how she is, if she's—

The puff of laughter, airy against his face, startles him; "I know you're awake," she says, and kisses him so quickly that he almost believes it just another laugh. "I'm going to see Dawn off."

He cracks an eye open. She's still mostly a blur above him, backlit by the faint sun streaming through the window. "D'you want me to—"

She pats his cheek. "I think it's fair to say that you're even less of a morning person than me. You do _not_ want to know what she's like this time of day." She gives a shudder so theatrical that he can see it plainly. "If you can really call it _day_. You go back to sleep, and I'll be back in a minute."

She's about to pull away—he can feel it, the minute shift of her weight drifting apart from him—and, half-conscious, he reaches up to grasp her hand and hold her there instead. Just a second longer. For all that he hardly knows her, still, he understands her. The world outside will creep in as soon as she opens the door, and then they will have a hard time expelling it again.

But for now, for a second, she is here: Marianne with dark eyes, sun-shot in the morning light, her hair hastily finger-combed around her face, no stain on her lips or eyes. She looks both older and younger like this, her shoulders too narrow in the spider-silk robe wrapped tightly around her, and he loves her exactly the same.

It would be hasty, poor timing, to spring that on her right now. Abrupt, probably, tactless. He tugs her down to kiss her again instead. She makes a face, her nose scrunching up, resisting.

"I have morning breath," she says, free hand coming up to cover her mouth.

He's awake enough now to give her an exaggerated look of great surprise. "Thought fairies were _immune_ to such curses. Surely only we people of _mud_ suffer from such—"

She's laughing as she leans the rest of the way down to kiss him, interrupting him, and her mouth _is_ a little sour from sleep. Sometimes, he thinks she's not really a fairy but something else, something both more wonderful and more terrible; the truth is likely that fairies are just all, in general, a little less prissy and perfect than the denizens of the forest would believe, but it is not as appealing to him as the firm belief that Marianne is simply in a category of her own making.

"Besides," he says, when she's pulled back, "that didn't stop yeh, just a minute ago."

She clears her throat and lifts her chin a little, putting her nose in the air. "I don't know what you mean."

"Aye, of course you don't."

Her play at haughtiness melts; she smiles, and it's such a _relief_ , after last night—after watching that turmoil become tangible in the air around her, outline every scowl and stride—that he smiles back.

"Bog," she says, "I—"

"Marianne!"

They both flinch, full-body and unexaggerated; Dawn doesn't _shout_ , no, she _sings_ , at the top of her voice, making a name into a melody, and Bog hears the distant groan of a few goblins reacting to such a racket at such an hour when they are just trying to get some sleep.

"Be right back," she says, squeezing his hand, and she's slipped from his grasp and out the door before he truly knows what's happened, still a little stunned and appalled by that _sound_.

Despite the late night, he does not immediately fall back asleep when he closes his eyes. No, now that she's drawn his attention to it, his mouth tastes awful, too, and he feels cramped and uncomfortable the way he always does after a night of restless sleep. Just getting up and stretching the cricks from his bones and wings helps.

Dawn is leaving, and Marianne cannot be far behind. He knows, has known, that she has been gone too long from a kingdom that she will someday be responsible for. Roland's arrival has broken the spell, this place between her kingdom and his, but it could just as easily have been something, anything else. Love—he touches on the word and instinctively backs away—doesn't change that. He takes a long drink from the pitcher on the windowsill and mulls it over, looking out at the dappled forest in the morning light.

But it does change _something_ , that it's crossed his mind. He remembers love—or infatuation, maybe, something weak and at a distance—and it didn't feel like this. Nothing has ever felt like this. The heat of a wildfire, and all the unpredictability, but none of the fear.

"Ugh, don't tell me you're really getting up for good." He turns to see her, back pressed against the door, looking both more rumpled and crankier than she did a few minutes earlier.

It takes him a beat longer than usual to shake off his thoughts enough to reply. "I think we should," he says, more firmly than he feels, and puts the water down. "I have an idea."

She watches him with an eyebrow raised but wary, still half-slumped against the door.

"You will need to go home soon. Roland—"

She cringes. "I'm sorry about last night. I—"

"Don't apologize—"

"No. Let me say this." She straightens up, pushing away from the door. "I always knew I couldn't stay here indefinitely, but to have the bubble burst like _that_ was…"

Her cheeks have gone faintly pink; she's wringing her hands the way she does when she's nervous, but when he tries to cross the room she gives him a withering look and he stays put instead.

"This has all been so...nice." She heaves out a sigh, a faint growl of irritation coming along with it. "I'm not saying this right. I am really bad at this."

"Whenever you let me say what I was going to say," he says, a little wry, "I will be just as bad."

Her lip twitches toward a smile. "You were pretty smooth a bit ago."

"I was half-asleep. Inhibitions." He waves a hand through the air, hoping she understands.

She nods. "Yeah. Those." She pushes a hand through her hair and takes a deep breath. "I meant—being here, with you. In normal circumstances, rather than really weird ones that involve kidnapping and love potions. It's the best I've felt in a long time. The most comfortable. I got really pissed off when _circumstances_ decided to make a reappearance, and I wasn't...super reasonable...about it. So I'm sorry. There." She sighs again, as if relieved, and looks up at him expectantly.

"I understand." He does. He did, even as she pulled away from him. After all, he's drawn both to the light and the dark inside her; he just knows the dark, always has, a little better than the light.

She nods again. "I know. Still had to say it." She pauses, and then says, "Okay! Your idea. What was it?"

He chuckles, and she smiles as if at the sound. "If you have to leave soon, I don't want to spend your last few days here working. The castle is fine, the goblins can watch our prisoner. Let me show you more of the forest. Just...just the two of us."

She's no longer twisting her hands or fidgeting at all; instead, there's a funny little smile on her lips. "I don't know, Bog. That was pretty smooth. You only stuttered once. You're making me look bad."

He fidgets, wings twitching.

"Better," she says, and then, "my guards can watch Roland, too. Help your goblins out."

This is a sticking point that hadn't occurred to him. "You think they'll let you go off, alone, with me?"

There's a smirk playing around her mouth that he likes very much. "They don't have to _know_ ," she says, a bit coyly, "until we're already gone. I'm sure we can enlist your mother's help in distracting them."

Thinking of the botched dinner from the night before, he says, "I'm sure we can."

"What do we need? How soon can we go?"

"Not much," he says, amused a little by her enthusiasm. "There are storehouses, kept up by the locals, at the places I have in mind. The sooner the better, I think."

"Places, plural?" She props a hand on her hip, cocking her head a little to the side. "Where are you taking me?"

"Hard to describe to a fairy."

She rolls her eyes. "You can just say _it's a surprise_ , if you want."

"Wouldn't that give it away?"

There is nothing like that grin of hers, half-exasperated, half-fond; her dark eyes watch him a moment and then release him, roving across the room. "I'll get dressed," she says. "You go arrange our distraction. Then we run, until your damn mushrooms catch up with us."

He laughs. "It will take them a while."

Her fingers brush his arm as she passes him, lingering. "I hope so."

He leaves her to it, feeling so light in the wake of this small success that the night before feels merely like a bad dream. His mother, predictably, is already awake, overseeing a little work in the kitchens; she follows him without complaint when he asks to speak to her in private, and there's a different kind of worry etched in the lines around her eyes than he's used to seeing.

"How's Marianne?" she asks, as soon as he closes the door to the storeroom.

"Better. Seems more like herself. But I think she'd be better if we got...away...from here for a few days. Until Dawn sends word."

She's already caught on. It's downright irritating sometimes, having a parent this intuitive, but he can admit that it's helpful right now. "The fen?"

"With a few stops on the way. There's just her guards to contend with—"

"Hah! You leave those to me, kiddo." She pats his elbow, a fond smile on her face. "You two have fun. We'll keep that fairy locked tight while you're away."

He doesn't argue or linger; he squeezes her hand, grateful, and hurries off to meet Marianne.

She's already dressed, her hair a whirlwind, his cloak thrown over her shoulders, her sword at her belt where it belongs. "Ready?" she asks, a little breathlessly.

He holds a hand out to her, and she takes it. "Wait," he says, listening closely.

They stand there, breathing softly. Below, all seems to have gone quiet in the wake of Dawn's departure, only the distant rattle of dishes in the kitchen making its way up the stairs, and then—

"GUARDS! GUARDS! COME QUICK! HE'S ESCAPING!"

Marianne slaps a hand over her mouth to cover a snort; the clank of plate armor rouses at the bottom of the stairs and then rattles off, away to the dungeons.

"Now," Bog says, tugging at her hand, and they sprint through the door, up the stairs, and out through the hatch into the morning sunlight.


	11. Chapter 11

It's been a long while since Marianne flew, really _flew_ , like this.

Bog tells her that their first stop, the place they'll stay tonight, isn't so far that they have to hurry; they left not long after daybreak, after all, laughing in the open air as Griselda's feigned shrieks and Roland's confused shouts mingled with the loud arguing of the two guards behind them. She left them a note, just in case they didn't take Griselda's eventual word for it. Sternly worded, stating that no, she has not been kidnapped and yes, she will be back in a few days, and if she isn't then they're free to march right back to the fields and tell her father on her. In the meantime, they're to help out around the castle and guard Roland, and they are _not_ to follow her.

She thinks it'll be their fear of the unknown patches of forest, more than their obedience, that keeps them from finding her, but it doesn't matter. The outcome is the same.

This place is nothing like her fields, and the deeper they fly into the tangle of these woods, the more dearly she loves it. The curious noises, many unlike any she's ever heard, bird calls she's unfamiliar with and water patterns she doesn't know; the odd, surprising breeze that kicks up between the trees; the smell of it all, so much richer and greener than she'd ever have expected. She'd always believed that this place could only be full of dead or dying things, and never expected it to brim so full of life.

"Brambles," Bog calls out behind her, but she's already seen them, blocking the path through the trees. "We'll have to go through."

"There's no way around?" she asks; she doesn't mind, but it's been so nice to stretch her wings.

He catches up, stretches a hand out to her. "Trust me."

She does; it is painfully, wonderfully easy, even though it still scares her. She puts her hand in his and folds her wings, and he guides them easily through the ragged brambles, his arm tight around her waist. No, she doesn't mind this at all. It reminds her of that first night—tucked close against his body, protecting her from the reaching thorns, the first time the blindfold lifted and she truly _saw_.

Just when she thinks they might be through to the other side—she sees the last light of day, barely, glimmering through the twisted branches—they drop lower to the ground instead of moving forward.

"Where are we going?" she asks, squirming to try to see, but his hand spreads out over her hip to hold her more firmly in place.

"You'll see. Stop wiggling."

Reluctantly, she stills, if only to spare her wings from the thorns; all she can see from here is the light slowly fading, leaving the shape of the brambles above them more dark and twisted than ever. She'd never be able to fly out of here on her own. She could climb, maybe, but that'd be quite the effort. Shouldn't have skipped the push-ups every time she felt lazy enough to cut a training exercise short.

The rustle of his wings cuts out, his arms shift, and then her feet are back on soft ground. As far as she can tell, they're still in the thick of the brambles, some of them only a handspan from her face. She frowns, turns to Bog to ask if they're in the right place—

But there, behind him, an enormous cavern carved from within the heart of the brambles opens up. He probably put her in this corner on purpose, either to trick her or to really impress her with the full scale of the place, but she doesn't care. The fireflies are starting to come out, flitting through all the twisted branches like glowing lanterns, and the shapes and shadows they throw aren't half as monstrous as she would have believed. It's stark, and strange, but beautiful.

The more she sees of his forest, the more she understands how well he reflects it.

"We keep little outposts like this away from the castle," he says, casually, as if it's nothing, but she likes to think that she sort of knows Bog by now, and she thinks she can see how much he wants her to like this place. "I stay here when the locals need me for something."

It's swept bare, the peat and moss springy underfoot as she passes Bog to walk deeper into that open space, but it doesn't have the feel of neglect; someone must come through to keep it in good shape. On the other side of the cavern, a neat bundle of woven-reed baskets are stacked all on top of each other. Some of the fireflies land on the brambles above them, while others continue to dance.

She has a hard time finding her voice. Her fields are beautiful, of course they are, and there are plenty of hidden, lovely places there, but she hasn't ever seen anything quite like this. That's happening a lot, lately. She's sure she could stay in this forest forever, and never run out of new and strange, beautiful things to see.

Funny, how narrow her view of this place has always been—when she thought about it at all. She should have known better.

"Outposts?" she says finally. "There's more than one?"

"The forest is big. Goblins do better in small groups, set apart from each other. Our population at the castle is the largest gathered in one place." A pause. "Not so for fairies, I take it."

"We all sort of…clump up. A few eccentrics live out in the fields on their own, but most of them stay close." She turns back to face him to find him watching her keenly. "This is incredible."

The hand not holding his scepter waves this off.

"You get very modest when you're nervous," she informs him, her mouth tugging into a smile.

He snorts at this. "There should be food in those baskets. Hungry?"

Starving, actually; flying so far stokes her appetite in a way she'd forgotten. It feels like there's a hole in her stomach. She nods, unbuckling her sword belt and placing it on the ground out of the way.

"How do they know to keep it stocked?" she asks. Bog rifles through a few of the baskets, setting some of them aside.

"They set supplies aside weekly, regardless. If I don't show up or send word within a few days, they're free to use it themselves. It's something of a party, as I understand it. They have a big meal with the whole village. Singing, dancing."

She chews on that while Bog finishes digging out their meal. They sit on the soft moss, backs braced by the still-stacked baskets, and he passes a plate of polished wood to her, loaded with some things she recognizes and others she doesn't.

"Nothing toxic," he says as she inspects her plate. "I think you'd be able to eat most of what we do here, but I left off the harsher items."

"Appreciated," she says, picking up a segment of what looks like a berry, so dark it's almost black. She pops it into her mouth; the burst of juice, sweet and a little bitter, surprises her. She hurriedly goes back for more, ignoring Bog's stifled chuckle.

After a long day of flying, and the very early morning, they eat in comfortable quiet. The infrequent buzz of firefly wings passes overhead, and off in the distance, a night breeze rustles through the ferns. Everything feels muffled, held at a distance. She wishes it could stay that way.

When she's eaten her fill, she says, "So goblins sing. And dance."

He gives her a sideways look. "You've seen it before."

"Yeah, in a…threat display, or something." He snorts at that description, and she smiles a little, too. "Guess I sort of thought that was just for the benefit of us fairies. Like we don't understand verbal threats if they're not melodic."

"Do you?" he asks, too innocently to be serious, and she swats at his arm in retaliation.

"I'm getting at something, here."

"Then get to it, tough girl."

It's so dumb, the little flutter in her stomach whenever he calls her that. So foolish. But she can't help but thrill at it, lean a little closer to him in reaction.

"Fairies have particular dances, is what I'm saying," she tells him. "For events, for emotions. Do goblins?"

"More for events than emotions," he says, the shadow of a smirk pulling on his mouth.

She sighs. "You know what we're like."

"I know what _you_ are like."

"I haven't danced my feelings in some time, thank you."

"What do you call that swordfight, then?"

"A _swordfight_ , Bog."

"Anger, determination, adrenaline—they don't count?"

She looks up at him, frowning thoughtfully. "We don't have dances for that."

"Maybe that's why you had to pick up a sword, then."

She blinks, considering this, and nods. "Very insightful."

Unexpectedly, he heaves himself to his feet and offers his hand down to her. "I'll show you."

She lays her hand in his before she can really think it through thoroughly. "Ah—I really _haven't_ danced in a while—I'm out of practice—"

He rolls his eyes. "My feet can withstand you stepping on them, princess."

She colors up at that but keeps her mouth shut, opting to scowl at him instead; he pulls her to her feet, ignoring the blistering glare, and leads her to the middle of the open cavern. Some of the fireflies gather closer overhead, and their buzzing begins to change. Subtle at first, and then clearer, the static vibration of wings becoming music instead. Lively, brisk—she already feels it moving through her. She's a fairy, after all, and music is magic to her, no matter how she's turned away from the traditional melodies of her homeland, to something darker and fiercer.

"Just follow me," he says, still loosely grasping her hand. "If you can learn to swordfight with a few pixies, you can pick up a goblin dance."

She's about to ask what kind of dance this is, but she doesn't get the chance; the volume of the fireflies' music rises, and then Bog is moving, and she's following along with him.

He's a good lead, and the steps are simple enough. She _is_ a fairy, and he's right about the swordfighting; dancing is in her blood, even if this kind of dance is unfamiliar to her. Its closest counterpart would be the line-dancing the elves do, but it's somewhat more intimate than that, partners orbiting one another, spinning away and back again. There'd be no room for others to stand in a line. As it is, they move across a good portion of the cavern, wide ellipses always drifting back to center.

She missteps a few times, but by their fourth circle out, she has the pattern down and she's laughing, hands grasping and releasing Bog's, feet kicking out a tempo against the ground. The fireflies' music ticks up, faster, faster, and she and Bog keep pace, grinning at one another when they come face-to-face, laughing when they spin apart and back together. They never once leave the ground—goblins, after all, don't have wings—but Marianne feels as if she's flying.

The song ends just as they come back to center, breathless, and stop. The fireflies above them applaud with the patchy static of their buzzing wings, and off in the distance, she hears a few happy cheers.

"Goblins?" she asks.

"The locals," Bog says, turning his head to listen as the far-off cheers fade. "It's their celebration dance. A favorite."

She squeezes his hands. "I loved it."

He glances down at her as if startled. "Well—good."

"Do you want to learn a fairy dance? Bit more flying, but we have the space."

He doesn't hesitate. "Show me."

It feels to her like those first moments they became honest with one another, not deflecting, not hiding—no masks, no tricks. She clears her throat, adjusts their positions, and starts to sing as she leads him through the first steps, an old song her mother loved. The fireflies pick up the melody quick enough, and then they're airborne, spinning and circling, touching back to the earth every now and then.

Bog picks it up as quickly as she did. Eventually, his voice joins hers, harmonizing. When the song ends, they blend seamlessly into another, a goblin dance that he leads her through, and another, and another. Like distance flying, she has not stretched this muscle in so long, and there's something both joyous and melancholy about it, a feeling she can't quite explain.

She's just glad, at the end of the night, that she's with Bog. She suspects—by the way he smiles, by the way his hands guide her—that he understands.


	12. Chapter 12

They stop the next night in the dizzying heights of a towering old tree, a hollow carved out at the top to protect them from the rainstorm. Marianne can't seem to help poking her head out through the leaves to look out at the rain-drenched forest and getting smacked with a raindrop now and then, only to shake it from her hair and get water all over Bog. Her laughter is loud, her eyes thick with shadow, and it seems as if every flight that takes them further from the border brushes more weight from her shoulders, drifting away until something free and wild surfaces, stretching its wings.

On the third afternoon, they arrive at the fen. Marianne gapes at it from the little platform at the very edge, all of her defenses stripped back, and Bog watches her, pleased by the reaction.

"I've never seen anything like this," she finally manages, staring up in awe at the tall reeds rising around their little wooden walkway, up from the peculiar, murky water. The enormous shadow of a fish passes beneath them, and she stares at it, too.

"You say that a lot, lately."

She huffs, looking away from the tall reeds and rickety wooden structures to glare up at him. "Because it's _true_. My comeuppance will be great, Bog King. You'll see all manner of odd things when you come to my fields."

This is the first time she's implied that he'll visit her—that after they part ways, they really will see one another again—and the smirk that pulls at his mouth is more of a smile. "Ah, do you have very frightening ladybugs?"

She huffs again. "You have no idea. Those things really barrel right through you."

He laughs—she grins, all feigned irritation gone—and takes her hand to lead her across the bridges, into the fen's village.

"The mushrooms should have told them we're coming," Bog says, hoping that the steward who receives their messages on this end still has better hearing than Stuff and Thang. "They shouldn't attack you outright."

She snorts, free hand falling to the grip of her blade. "I'm sure I could outfly them long enough for you to explain."

Not so long ago, she was afraid of every odd thing in this forest, everything the least bit unusual or strange, and now she seems almost careless, unconcerned. Somewhere, deep at the back of his mind, he thinks that she could be at home here, at ease.

Someday. Maybe.

A few curious faces peek out from the doors of their homes, but before anyone else can approach, the steward trots across one of the pathways toward them, his flat feet slapping wetly against the wood boards. Junius is getting up in age—he served Bog's father as a younger goblin—but he moves as swiftly as ever, his years only showing in the odd graying wrinkles marked in his green flesh.

"Sire," he greets. "Your journey was safe?"

"No trouble."

"Good, good. And this must be Princess Marianne." He holds a hand out to her, and Marianne doesn’t hesitate to take it; she even smiles a little, startled, when the steward lightly kisses it. "I see it—you take after your father, but that's more your mother's smile."

She blinks, her mouth opening in surprise. "You knew—"

"The previous king sent me to your palace, a time or two. To convey the occasional message, you know. Your mother was always very kind."

"Yes," Marianne says, and despite a bit of old sadness in her dark eyes, she's still smiling. "Yes, she was."

"Well, you must be tired. Come, come, I've had the cottage prepared for you." Junius waves a hand for them to follow, and Marianne falls in at Bog's side.

"I didn't know our kingdoms ever had messages cross the border," she says to him, her voice pitched low.

"I'd forgotten," Bog admits. "Dire circumstances, both. An illness came through the forest, powerful enough to kill some goblins. My father thought it was necessary to warn your kingdom, in case they could help create a treatment or cure before it arrived there. I think Junius fell ill with it while he was at your palace, and your healer tended him."

Marianne's brows furrowed. "I don't remember clearly, but—when I was very young, there was a wildfire in our fields. It stopped on its own, but I think a message came then. I remember my parents talking about it."

"We'd seen the smoke." Bog remembered it, perhaps a little more clearly than she did—the smell, more than the sight, the way the smoke crept into the forest and stayed there even though the fire never came close enough to threaten them. "My father wanted to know how much damage there was. Our kingdoms have always been isolated from one another, but my father thought—in unusual circumstances—we ought to be neighbors. The only unusual circumstance that has risen during my rule…"

"The primroses," Marianne finishes. "How are we going to handle that from now on, by the way?"

"I still do not want them used." He doubts that she will disagree. "That potion can do serious harm."

"I agree. Your goblins shouldn't have to do all the work, cutting them down and all that." The crease between her brows deepens, lips pursing as she thinks. "I'll bring it to the fairy council. See if we can tighten up the punishment for using them, and send some of our people to help keep them trimmed in the spring."

"That would be…well. That would be good."

She shoots a quick smile up at him, but they have no time to say anything further; Junius announces, "Here we are," and opens the door to the central cottage.

It's been aired and swept, its few rooms well-furnished, the fire already lit. "I hope you don't mind," Junius continues from the doorway as they step inside, "but the village has planned a bit of a meal this evening. They'd be so pleased if you joined us."

These things are not exactly Bog's idea of a good time, but he's turning over a new leaf, so the saying goes, and so he nods. "We'll come."

Junius beams—as much as a goblin can beam, anyway. "Very good, sir. It starts at about sundown. I'll leave you to settle in."

He shuts the door behind him, and Marianne drops into the nearest chair with a pleased sigh.

"That might be the most pleasant goblin I've ever met."

Bog snorts. "I'm not pleasant?"

"Usually? Not in the slightest. It's part of your charm." She smirks up at him, swinging her feet up onto a footstool, but just as quickly, the smirk fades. "This whole trip has been…just perfect."

He waits, but she doesn't elaborate, so he prompts, "But?"

"No _but_ , really, I just…what are we going to do, when I go back to the fields? Dawn must be there by now. I'm sure word will arrive at your castle soon." She sits up, her feet swinging back to the floor. "I want you to visit me."

"Then I will," he says—easily, gratefully, because even if there is an end in sight, there is also a _beginning_.

Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "Really?"

"Really."

"And can I come back here, sometime?" Her hands twist around each other. "I know there's more to the forest that I haven't seen. Will you show me?"

"You can come back whenever you like." He sits down across from her on the footstool. "Whenever you can."

Despite this reassurance, she makes a face. "I have a feeling it won't be as often as I want. Dad's been hinting this last year about me taking the throne soon, so that he can help me out my first few years and get some rest of his own. It'll be harder for me to leave, once…"

He knows it; he has been long enough on his throne that trips away should not do any real damage, but he remembers the uncertainty during the transition, during the first year. The people cannot adjust to a ruler who isn't present.

"We'll figure that part out when it happens," he says, and means it.

Her eyes search his face, suddenly fierce. "I'm going to hold you to that."

"D'you think that bothers me?"

Her features melt from frown to smile; she's still laughing as she leans forward, as her mouth presses to his, the warmth of her body drifting closer. He steadies her, hands on her waist, and closes his eyes, breathing her in—no hint of the rose she claims to sleep on, just Marianne, the scent of her skin, the rainwater that dried in her hair overnight.

He hasn't had to be without her since she broke feet-first through his skylight, and he doesn't look forward to it, but for now—for now, she's still here.

* * *

The meal with the fen's village is more like a banquet; Bog wouldn't be surprised if this was more than half the inhabitants, turned out for groaning tables of food, a band playing quietly for the chattering diners. He and Marianne eat quickly and then make the rounds, pausing to talk with the many goblins.

They are far enough from the border that they see Marianne more as a curiosity than a potential meal. A few of the children touch her wings with awe; she takes some of them flying, held securely in her arms, and returns them to the ground amidst shrieks of delight. She talks staidly with their parents, answering probing questions about the fields, about her family, about the incident that kicked all this off. She assuages their worries, the rumors of a conquering army put to rest.

She will make a good ruler. Not the most subtle, maybe, but fair and forthright. Bog thinks that there can be no better queen than that.

When everyone has eaten their fill, the band strikes up a livelier tune. Bog recognizes it as a variation of the music the fireflies played for just the two of them. As the platform clears, Marianne appears before him, grinning.

"Can we dance?" she asks, holding a hand out to him.

He hasn't really danced in front of his subjects in some time, always tucked away in the castle with his misery and bitterness—or, if forced, tucked away in the corner with a warm drink—but now he takes the hand offered to him. "Do you remember the steps?"

She rolls her eyes. "Just try to keep up."

The goblins clap along, even the ones that are dancing. Their heads turn at Marianne's laugh, but their puzzled frowns become grins of delight when they realize that the fairy princess knows the steps, dancing through their midst like she's known how since birth.

After a few more numbers, one of the villagers asks Marianne to dance in one of the group numbers. Bog lets her go and retreats to sit with Junius, alone at the head table and watching the celebration.

"I imagined a smaller party," he says to the steward.

"It's been some time since you visited," Junius replies, unabashed. "You can't expect them not to leap on the opportunity. Your fairy is making quite an impression."

She's tripped, but she picks herself up with a grin; the villager she's dancing with shows her where she went wrong, and on the next pass, she carries out the steps with no problem, changing hands with half a dozen others.

"She's not _my_ fairy," Bog says, though belatedly and without much conviction. Junius ignores him.

"I think your father would have liked her," he says. "The sword, in particular."

Bog doesn't know what to say to that, so he stays quiet, watching Marianne dance—with a few of the village children, now, spinning them around on her feet while they laugh.

"We plan to change things," he says, finally. Junius was an old friend, a loyal servant, to his father; Bog is flying blind, but he could use some advice. "More contact with the fields, more communication. Trade."

"That will be a change, indeed." Junius watches the dancers, frowning—not unhappily, Bog thinks, but thoughtfully. "Not unwelcome, I think. The goblins will fall in line. I've heard the castle inhabitants already like her quite a bit. We could certainly benefit from trade with them."

"My father kept our kingdoms separate." He doesn't worry about deviating from tradition, not exactly, only worries about the potential consequences; if this does not go well, if his kingdom suffers for this idea, it will be hard to set right.

"Because it's what was done, what's been done, as far back as we can remember, and probably farther back still. We minded our business, they minded theirs. But things have collided now, been set in motion. We will always be from different worlds, but maybe things will be better, for trying to understand." He shifts in his seat, straightening up. "Whatever you need, let me know."

"She'll return to the fields soon." His heart pangs a little at the reminder. "I'd like you to go with her. You have some history at the palace; you'll be a good ambassador."

Junius gives him a shrewd, sidelong look. "I can do that."

At that moment, Marianne arrives at the table, out of breath and flushed in the face. "Great party, Junius," she says. "The villagers are all having a good time."

"There's much to celebrate," he says—not nearly as ambiguously as he thinks, the old bastard—and gets to his feet. "Excuse me, your royal highness. Your majesty." He dips his head to Marianne and then Bog and hustles off, around the table and into the crowd.

Marianne takes his seat, letting out a gusty sigh. "Whew. My feet hurt."

"Goblin children a bit heavier than fairies, eh?"

She laughs, not to be provoked. "Maybe a little. Mostly it's all the stomping. So much of our dancing is in the air; I'm not used to smacking my feet on the ground like that."

"We're lucky the whole platform doesn't give way."

"It seems solid enough."

"Only because they built it stronger after the _last_ platform collapsed at one of these parties."

"Please tell me you ended up in the water." Her smile is entirely too delighted.

"That information is worth at least one of your embarrassing stories."

"You need to learn to ration these things, Bog King. Before long I'm going to run out."

"I doubt that, tough girl."

The party goes late into the night; they talk at the head table, get up to dance again, part ways to talk to the villagers and come back together. It is the most at ease Bog has felt in his own kingdom in a long time, and he doesn't doubt that it's all owed to her, eyes catching the firelight as she smiles at him from across the crowd.


	13. Chapter 13

On the third day, the mushrooms bring a message to the fen, addressed to Marianne.

She recognizes her father's handwriting at once, as soon as Bog holds the letter out to her. They retreat to their cottage and she slits the envelope open, pulling the single page free with hands that tremble faintly.

_Dear Marianne,_

_The Sugar Plum Fairy is working on the antidote as I write this. By the time this reaches you, it will be finished. Bring Roland, as quickly as you can. Have your guards keep him restrained. I want him in his right mind when I pass judgment on him._

_It doesn't feel right to say the things I wish to here, so I will wait until you return home._

_Love,_

_Dad_

"That's not ambiguous at all," Marianne grumbles, folding the page up and stuffing it back in the envelope.

She turns back to Bog, who waits for her to explain, and it's not until she looks at the resignation on his face that it really, truly hits her: she must go home. No more stalling, no more running.

"Looks like it's time to go," she says, her voice a little tight with the emotion choking her.

He doesn't say anything; instead, he crosses the room to pull her into his arms, and they stand like that for a long moment, her cheek pressed against his chest, her eyes closed against the tears threatening her.

"I'll race yeh," he says.

They bid farewell to the villagers; Junius sets to packing, too, though he will be a ways behind them, confined to walking or flying aback an insect. They don't delay with exploration, as they did on their journey out. The weather is fair, and after just half a day of hard flying, they've reached the bramble outpost.

It all seems too quick to Marianne, who can't seem to make the most of her last hours with Bog. Neither of them get much sleep at the outpost, but they can't seem to talk much, either, lying together on the soft moss and watching the fireflies slowly wink out as dawn approaches. They manage to exchange a few sentences of business here and there—agreeing that Griselda will be _something_ for the fairy council to chew on, wondering if Junius can temper her at all—but otherwise, they're painfully quiet.

"This is maudlin," she says, even as the sun's rays reach them. "We're brooding by sunrise."

"This isn't brooding. This is moping."

She props herself up on her elbow to glare down at him. "Oh, are you an expert?"

He rolls his eyes. "Surely you know the answer to that."

"I'm not moping," she says, with as much dignity as she can, considering that she definitely _is_ moping. "I'm brooding. Just as edgy as can be. _You_ are moping."

He pulls her down to kiss her, which effectively ends her argument—not that she had anything further of substance to argue, anyway. She presses closer against him, trying to grasp the trickle of passing hours fleeing through her fingers, draining away until the warmth of his hand on the back of her neck will be gone, the tender press of his mouth to hers will be gone, the sidelong smirks and quick banter will be gone—

"I _am_ moping," he says, in a low voice between kisses, and this makes her feel both better and worse.

Eventually, they do sleep. Marianne's dreams are restless, full of too-bright lights and the dancing glimmer she associates with the fields of her home. She opens her eyes to the dim greenish glow of Bog's forest and wonders when she'll see it again.

He squeezes her hand. "It won't be long."

He can't know what she's thinking, but perhaps they're just _both_ thinking it. She swallows, nods, and they continue on toward the castle.

Briefly, the fugue lifts as the combined forces of the fairy guards, the goblins, Bog, Marianne, and Griselda attempt to properly restrain Roland for the journey home. The love potion has driven him somehow loopier in their absence, and he doesn't even recognize Marianne anymore. In the end, Stuff mixes up one of the sleeping draughts distilled from a local fern and gets him to drink the whole thing; he promptly passes out.

"Should keep him out for the day," she says while the fairy guards fasten manacles around Roland's wrists and ankles. "Don't know how it might mix with the love potion, though. Better keep him chained."

"Understood," one of the guards says from beneath his helmet, and turns to Marianne. "Are you ready, ma'am?" If she's not mistaken, he's still a little miffed about her wandering off for several days.

"Yes," she forces herself to say. "Let's go."

It's not so far to the border. Most of them can fly; Roland is draped over one of the flying insects the goblins commonly use for transportation, and Griselda rides sidesaddle. Marianne smiles a little at the peculiar sight. The guards fly a bit ahead, and Bog and Marianne a bit behind, talking little as the glow of light at the forest's edge grows brighter and brighter.

They reach the shade of the primroses just as the sun starts to sink into the horizon. "Go ahead," Marianne tells the guards. "I'll be right there."

Griselda gets down from her steed, shaking her skirts out and then flapping her hands at the guards. "Well? You heard the lady. Let these two say goodbye!"

The guards carry Roland off; Griselda reaches up to pat Bog on the cheek and toddles away, past the primroses; and then it is the two of them, alone.

Marianne's heart beats like she's been dancing—not flying, that slow, steady thrum, but the sprint of some wild thing, its feet hitting the ground with every stride. She doesn't think she should wait any longer, but she wishes the timing were somehow better, that they'd have a few hours to savor the words, maybe, before…

"I'll miss you," she begins.

"I love you," he says.

No fanfare—no singing and dancing, no eager witnesses, just simple words, given earnestly, one hand curled so tightly around his staff that she worries he'll break it, the setting sun falling between them. She couldn't have known how it would feel to hear him say those words, couldn't have guessed. It staggers her, the sheer magnitude of it, and she's so stunned that she doesn't say anything at all for a second, just staring up at him with happiness slowly devouring all the misery inside her.

"I love you, too," she says, just when he has started to look a little concerned. "I've been waiting for—"

"—the right moment."

They smile at each other, relieved, and come together, his hand pressing to the small of her back and her standing on tiptoe; she frames his face with her hands and kisses him, long enough that her lungs start to ache.

When they break apart, he says. "Give me a week. I should check on some of the other outposts, but then I can visit."

"Don't keep me waiting."

She doesn't think she's seen quite this look on his face before, tender and soft and so affectionate that her heart beats with it.

"Wouldn't dare, tough girl," he says.

* * *

It's her third fairy council meeting in as many days, and she thinks that she's very much in danger of setting the room on fire before she even enters it. She fiddles with her clothes, her jewelry, the empty sword belt, and combs her fingers through her hair one more time, gritting her teeth at her reflection.

At the open doorway, someone knocks. "I can hear you stewing all the way down the hall, little briar."

"You have good ears," Marianne sighs, stepping back to sink onto the too-soft petals of her bed. There is something nice and familiar about being home, but she has never, ever missed anyone as much as she misses Bog, and arguing with the fairy council for long hours, having to be pathetically grateful for every inch they give way to her new ideas, has left her with a constant headache.

"Change is slow," Griselda tells her, hopping up to sit beside her. "You knew that."

"Just missing the way goblins do things, that's all," she says. "I have to dance around old Lord Norrington so I don't offend him. If he was a goblin, I'd just headbutt him."

Griselda chuckles, then holds out the small package in her hands. "Here. Bog sent this along. Open it before you go."

Her spirits lift instantly. She tears open the package, so fixated on the letter that she barely notices the other item, still wrapped, that tumbles into her lap.

_Marianne—_

_Three more days. I'll see you soon._

_I love you._

_Bog_

_P.S. They can't ban what they can't see._

She tucks the letter into her pocket, smiling, and turns her attention to the still-wrapped package. It's immediately clear what they are when she pulls the paper away: two tiny daggers, small enough to hide inside her sleeves. She particularly admires the way their sheaths give way to what looks like jewelry, gnarled and twisted bark and glinting amber reminiscent of Bog's staff. No one would suspect that something so pretty is attached to something so deadly.

She fastens them tight, grinning, and lets her sleeves fall to conceal the daggers; she feels more confident, more sure of herself, already. Exactly as Bog intended, she has no doubt. Griselda has already toddled out the door, but Marianne pauses a moment longer to admire the decoration.

"Thanks, Bog," she murmurs, and—the letter in her pocket, the daggers hidden at her wrists—she sets her shoulders and marches into battle.


End file.
